


Baby & Driver

by justdk



Category: Baby Driver (2017), Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Action, Alcohol, Angst, Assault, Atlanta, Cars, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marijuana, Mental Health Issues, Organized Crime, Prokopenko POV, Sexy Times, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2018-12-06 05:38:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11594049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justdk/pseuds/justdk
Summary: Prokopinsky Baby Driver AUProkopenko's life has hit rock bottom. He hates everything, especially his part-time job at the diner. Then one night he meets a mysterious stranger and his life is changed forever.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Come along for the ride! Trigger warning for: suicidal/intrusive thoughts

It’s been a long ass day and Prokopenko is wiped. He had an afternoon shift at the detail shop, a short break back at his shitty apartment where he smoked a bowl, and now he’s back on the nightshift at Buddy’s Diner. All night he’s been getting distracted by intrusive thoughts, fantasizing about offing himself or any one of the jerks who come in drunk, harass him, and don’t tip. Not even imagining beats and remixes can keep him focused and it’s fucking miserable. He misses his sister and old friends, regrets moving to Atlanta to pursue a music career that never happened. Now this is his life: boring, soul-crushing jobs, no real friends, no steady boyfriend, living in a dump with two college guys who spend more time playing X-Box than going to class. The Fucking American Dream.

Proko’s in the middle of rolling silverware—and trying not to obsess over the knives and how easy it would be to just slice his wrists and bleed out on the counter—when the chime over the door rings. He’s too deep in his thoughts to care until Buddy yells at him from the kitchen, “Customer, dumbass!”

With a deep sigh Proko heads over to the booth. The diner’s been pretty empty tonight which means his paycheck is going to be light. Honestly he should have just stayed home.

The customer is sitting at the corner booth, back to the wall. He’s sprawled out on the seat like he needs to take up the entire area to prove something. Everything about him instantly _pings_ Prokopenko’s interest—good hair, nice face, fit, tight leather jacket, tattoos—added all together they make this guy look like an exposed, live wire, one touch and _BAM!_ you’re dead. It’s a good look. Something about _trouble_ just makes Proko want to sit up and say, “yes, please!”

And now he’s been staring too long and the guy’s knowing grin says that he’s noticed. With the white rimmed plastic shades on it’s impossible to gauge the guy’s true expression, maybe he’s high or drunk, but he doesn’t appear to mind the extra attention.

The guy sits forward, leaning onto the table, a toothpick hanging from the side of his mouth. When he smiles Proko sees a flash of gold in his mouth, winking as bright as his gleaming white teeth. (Not a meth head: score). His dark hair is slicked back, the sides shaved into a fade. He’s got tattoos EVERYWHERE: neck, chest, hands, a couple on his face. His leather jacket hides his arms but Proko would bet this month’s salary that the guy is inked from wrist to shoulder, probably has epic back and chest pieces, too. And all of that adds up to money, especially for the quality of the tattoos. Proko takes a few calming breaths that do absolutely nothing.

“Hey, baby doll,” the guy says, cocking his head to the side. His accent is _not_ Southern, he sounds like he should be in a mafia movie. And Jesus help him… _that voice_. “What’s good?”

Prokopenko is fairly certain that he knows the menu by heart but he can’t remember a damn thing. “The coffee’s shit but the waffles are good.” He hopes and prays that Buddy did not hear that, that no one heard that. Maybe he didn’t actually say it?

But the guy’s laughing, or Proko thinks he’s laughing. It sounds a bit like a cough or ragged gasping.

“Straight shooter, huh?” The guy winks at him. “I’ll take the waffles, then. And some shitty coffee. I gotta be up all night.”

Proko remembers to scribble down the order but he then he lingers at the table because he’s an idiot.

“Coming right up,” he says, the words automatically slipping from his mouth. “And, uh, I like your ink.”

The guy flexes his fingers, DREAM and DEATH tattooed across the knuckles, complicated patterns of spider webs, skulls, roses, pills, and knives spill down his hands, disappearing beneath the jacket sleeves.

“Thanks, I like yours, too.” Proko flushes a little. He’s not got nearly as much ink but what he has is nice: a rose on the side of his neck, a snake coiled around his wrist, the rest are hidden beneath his clothes.

“Oh, cool, thanks,” Proko stumbles over his words and then stumbles over his feet as he beats a hasty retreat to the kitchen to give Buddy the order. He grabs the fresh pot of coffee and hustles back to the booth. The guy watches him approach, mouth stretched in a half-smile. Proko’s hands tremble a little as he pours the coffee but he manages not to spill it. “Cream?” The question is innocuous enough but the guy’s leer is anything but.

“Always.” He accepts a couple creamers, peeling back the seal with his teeth. “So,” he eyes Proko’s nametag, “is Baby your real name?”

Proko looks down and flushes again. “Crap. I grabbed my coworker’s apron by mistake.” He wipes his hands self-consciously down the front of the white apron. One of his former boyfriends said he looked cute in an apron; he hopes that it wasn’t a lie. “My name is Ilya but I mostly go by Proko.”

“Proko.” The guy tries the name out. “Ilya.” His lips are amazing. “Proko is short for?”

“My last name. Prokopenko.” He might as well give the guy his entire life story, one quick Google search and this stranger will know more than he should about the sad, slightly infamous life of Ilya Prokopenko, disowned son. At least he can try to level the playing field. “And you are?”

The phone on the table vibrates and the guy swears as he picks it up and checks the caller ID. He swears again.

“Late,” is all he says as he stands and retrieves his wallet from his back pocket. He pulls out a twenty and shoves it into Proko’s apron. “Sorry, Baby Doll, work’s calling. But I’ll be back. Gotta try that shitty coffee!”

Proko watches him go, stares as the mysterious stranger slides into a cool, icy white Mitsubishi with a bleeding knife painted on the side. The guy peels out of the parking lot, the car roaring away.

A dream, that’s what it feels like. Proko gathers up the mug and empty creamers and carries them back to the sink. He rings up the transaction, giving himself the change as a tip before snagging the waffles and eating them plain. The dull humdrum of the diner settles in but for once there’s a bit of light at the end of the tunnel. Proko takes a sip of the stranger’s coffee—too sweet—and smiles. The jukebox starts playing “I’m Into Something Good” and before long Proko’s humming and planning out a new track. Things are looking up.


	2. Chapter 2

“Proko! Ilyaaaa! Babyyyy! You got any pie?” Prokopenko grits his teeth and slams the apartment door with a little too much force. It’s early in the morning and by any rights his roommates should be asleep but the perpetual party boys have no sense of normal circadian rhythms. Not that Proko does either but damn. Getting harassed before he’s even in the door? All new low of Craig and Louis. He briefly contemplates grabbing a kitchen knife and slitting their stupid throats but… too messy.

“No. I don’t have any damn pie,” Proko growls as he locks the door and slides the deadbolt and chain lock for good measure. There’ve been a string of break-ins at the apartment complex and he’ll be damned if anyone takes what little remains of his possessions.

With a sigh he makes his way down the hall, passing by the living room where Craig is laid out on the couch, a rerun of True Blood playing on the screen. It’s apparently been a long, lonely night for Craig, judging by the pile of tissues that Proko wishes he hadn’t seen. Louis is passed out on a pile of bean bags, a knocked over bottle of tequila next to him and a crumpled up foil wrapper from the local taco truck.

“They don’t just give me free pie for working,” Proko tells Craig, easing by the couch on his way to his tiny room. The truth is that he _does_ get to eat the old pie and whatever else he feels like scavenging. But he’s never going to do anything nice for Craig on principle because Craig is an asshole, the absolute worst kind.

“Dude that fucking sucks,” Craig complains. On screen a couple is doing the nasty with loud, lurid abandon typical of a HBO show. Proko looks away. Whatever good vibe he was riding after meeting tall, dark, and mysterious is gone. “Hey,” Craig grunts, “rent is due in a couple days. You good for it?”

Proko swallows. Yeah, he’s good, if he doesn’t eat anything not provided at the diner. “Sure,” he says. “I’ll get it to you.” He’s almost to his room when he hears Craig’s sleazy voice calling after him.

“You know, we could make other arrangements. If you come up short.” Proko looks over his shoulder and Craig makes an obscene gesture, made even worse by the wet sounds blaring from the TV. Proko flips him off and escapes into his room. It’s not the first time Craig has attempted to proposition him, probably won’t be the last. Craig is the reason Proko has more locks on his bedroom door than they have on the front door. As soon as he gets enough cash he’s getting out of here.

In the dim, predawn light his room looks like a monk’s cell. Or a prison cell. Or like his room at the hospital. He shakes his head quickly, trying to blank out that memory. Not good, not good. There isn’t much of anything: a mattress in the corner, a low table like the kind they have in Japanese restaurants, a suitcase of clothes plus some hanging in the closet, a few boxes filled with things he can’t stand to sell. He pries up a loose floorboard and takes out a decorative wooden box – a gift from his sister – and retrieves the glass pipe and stash of weed. Honestly he can’t afford to smoke as much as he does, but he can afford his prescriptions even less so he chose herbal over pharmaceutical; sure it doesn’t get rid of the problems but it helps him stay calm, helps him sleep.

Proko opens the window and climbs out onto the fire escape. The apartment isn’t in the best part of the city but at least he has some kind of view. His neighbor’s cat is already sitting on the steps, hunched over and sleepy. Proko sits down beside her and scratches behind her eyes, comforted by the touch of warm fur and her answering purr. He hums quietly and takes the first hit, holding it in before exhaling. Already he feels the edge blurring. He has a cat at his side, the sunrise in his eyes, and smoky calm in his lungs. Plus he met the hottest guy he has ever laid eyes on and it’s just possible that he might see him again.

Proko stretches his long legs out and slumps against the railing. He has an old song echoing in his mind, _Love… Love is strange… Baby, sweet baby, my sweet baby, you’re the one…_ He isn’t sure where he had heard it, maybe at the shop? Ralph and Ernesto are always playing oldies in their office which is kind of ridiculous because they’re both in their thirties. It goes with their hipster aesthetic not that Proko really minds, it beats the music that most of the other shop guys like.

The building is slowly waking up, tenants heading off to jobs or some, like him, returning from the night shift. For the most part the residents are workers; Craig and Louis are something of an anomaly. Louis is an exchange student and he isn’t terrible unless he’s around Craig but since they’re practically glued to the hip it means Louis rides the asshole train more often than not.

Proko finishes his bowl and sadly considers the remainder of his stash. He needs to buy more this week, after he pays rent. A problem for another day. He gives the cat one last pat and slips back into his room. After setting his alarm to wake him up for his shift at the detail shop Proko strips, puts in his earbuds, and climbs between the sheets. He cues up his sleep playlist, trance on an endless loop. With his eyes closed and the sounds of the apartment drowned out by his tracks he can pretend that he’s safe and okay. He breathes deep, smelling pot and coffee and the faint, lingering scent of car oil and gas and wax. He yawns and thinks about dark eyes and cool tattoos and a distinct voice calling him Baby Doll. His dreams are incredible.

—–

The alarm goes off just before noon and Proko jerks awake, sweat coating his skin, his hair damp and clinging to his forehead. For several moments he can’t remember where he is, the ceiling looks unfamiliar, the smells are wrong, the jabbing of his heart in his chest is a pain he can’t deal with. One of his earbuds fell out during the morning and he can hear the laugh track for a TV show and the dull pounding of bass through the walls. Slowly he remembers. He’s not home. He’s not at the detox facility. He’s alone in Atlanta. This is where the buck stopped and the crushing sensation of being trapped in a dead end is so heavy that he contemplates never leaving his bed.

The snooze alarm shrills through his one earbud and he swipes at his phone, silencing it. He has to get up; he has to go to work. If he doesn’t work he can’t pay rent and then he’ll be out on the street and he won’t make it a week. If he’s going to die it’ll be more glamorous and gratifying than starving and strung out in an alley.

Proko pulls on a pair of basketball shorts and grabs his towel. If he’s lucky he can shower and get out before Louis or Craig notice that he’s awake. He slinks down the short hallway and finds their closet-like bathroom empty. It smells like Axe body wash meaning that Louis recently showered. Sure enough there are short, tight curls of dark hair around the drain and in the sink. Proko grabs a tissue and cleans out the hair, gagging. He grew up with a fastidious sister who insisted he keep their shared bathroom clean and then, when his family got super rich and upgraded to a mansion with so many bathrooms that he could use a different one every day of the week, he still held onto the habit of keeping his space clean.

He takes a quick shower using bar soap and shampoo from the Dollar Tree, scented like some sad person’s idea of Spring Rain; it’s a smell that Proko has started to associate with his poverty. He shaves quickly, thanking his genetics for the fact that he can barely grow any body hair. His roots are starting to show and that’s something he can’t abide, money or no money. He’ll need to touch up the dye job later, maybe add some more streaks of color. The cheap stuff fades and washes out ridiculously fast, leaving him with dull pastels. Some of the customers at the diner actually complimented him on the look so Proko thinks it’s probably passable. At the very least the guy he met the night before didn’t seem to mind.

Thinking about the mystery customer, codename Spank Me Please, makes Proko feel instantly better. Except that code name’s not catchy enough. Proko contemplates possible nicknames while eating some dry cereal and waiting for the coffee to brew. Sinful and Sweet? No. Sex God? Maybe. Fucking Fantasy? Tattooed and Tantalizing? Shit, he’s really bad at this. Mr. Sex Me Up? Proko snorts and pours the coffee into a travel mug and checks the time. He can make it to the shop if he speeds walks and doesn’t get distracted.

Proko grabs his headphones and phone before heading out, locking up his bedroom. He spent a bit too long picking an outfit though fuck knows he has little enough to chose from, mostly castoffs from his coworkers and Ralph. Thanks to them he’s got torn skinny jeans, a plain white tee, and beat up Converse that were new three years ago.

Once he’s out the door Proko starts feeling better. He turns up the music on his phone and soon he’s vibing to his favorite mixes. It’s hot as fuck outside and the hot coffee tastes like a ticket straight to hell but he needs the caffeine so he guzzles it anyway, waiting at the intersection to cross. His current neighborhood is extremely diverse and eclectic, about as far away from his whitebread upbringing as possible. If he took off his headphones (which, no way, no how; no music = instant anxiety) he could hear half a dozen languages just standing on the corner, more as he winds his way several blocks and streets to the detail shop. Most of his coworkers are either recent immigrants or first generation Americans; it’s something Proko can relate to since his parents immigrated when they were young. He’s been to the homeland several times as a kid but never felt the pull to return permanently.

Proko jogs the last block to the shop, punching in right as his shift starts. Ernesto spots him and waves.

“Baby! You made it, kid. C’mere, give your old man some love.” Ernesto holds out a large, calloused hand, his grin wide and showing off several gold teeth.

“Hey, E,” Proko greets him, returning his handshake and allowing Ernesto to pull him into a hug. Ernesto pokes his ribs.

“You need to eat more,” Ernesto chides. He acts like everyone’s damn mother even though he’s barely ten years older than Prokopenko.

“I try,” Proko says, going over to pull on his coveralls. “It’s too fucking hot here, man. All the weight melts off.”

“Hmm. That’s true,” Ernesto nods. He’s a bear of a man (and an actual bear, which… not a secret, at all) standing at 6’3” and weighing in at 240. He has more ink than bare skin, an enviable beard, and a classic undercut. If Proko was into older guys he would definitely be down to fuck but he’s never developed that attraction. “Ralph’s got a beauty lined up for you in the back bay. Came in this morning with some scratches to the paint and some other dings. Guy wants it sparkling by tonight.”

“And you saved it just for me?” Proko asks. He can feel the sweat already rolling down his back and he’s looking forward to being in the bays where it’s air-conditioned.

“The other guys have enough to keep them busy,” Ernesto shrugs. “And when I saw the driver I figured, you know.”

Proko raises an eyebrow in question. “You tryin’ to set me up with a client? The fuck, man?”

“Proko,” Ernesto whines. “If you had seen him! Trust me, he is your type. 100%.”

“You don’t know my type,” Proko sulks. He’s not a fan of being obvious and it’s not like he talks about his latest fucks at work.

Ralph joins them, sipping at a coffee. At some point he’ll send Proko on a coffee run since he’s not only the youngest shop boy but he’s also the rookie.

“Ilya!” Ralph settles for a fist bump, clutching his coveted coffee in his other hand. “ _Qu_ _é pasa, mi hijo_?”

“Dude, I am _not_ your son,” Proko growls at the same time that Ernesto protests, “Stop usurping my mother tongue, _cabron_.”

Ralph laughs and ruffles Proko’s hair. “Both of y’all chill. I need to keep up my Spanish skills. Didn’t waste my time at college to go forgetting everything.”

“Your mom goes to college,” Ernesto mutters. It’s some sort of inside joke between the two of them because Ralph smirks. If Proko didn’t know any better he would swear the two of them were fucking but Ralph, amazingly enough, is happily married (to a woman) and has three kids, two dogs, and a gerbil. According to their story he and Ernesto met in college and decided to forego all their sensible plans and open a detail shop. Ten years later Brothers Detail Shop is the place to go in Atlanta for custom work. They’ve done cars for celebrities like Outkast’s André 3000 and various professional athletes.

Proko grabs a water from the cooler while Ernesto and Ralph hold a conversation that is composed exclusively of movie quotes. He nods at the other guys who are busy at work and collects his detail kit. By the time he wanders towards the bay Ernesto and Ralph have finished their coded discussion and are watching him with matching enthusiastic expressions. It’s more than a little creepy.

“Ilya, close your eyes,” Ralph says in a sing-song voice. Proko sighs but does as he’s told; the guys are having too much fun at his expense. “Okay, I’m gonna lead you forward.” They shuffle across the cement floor. “There.” Ralph presses Proko’s palm to cool metal. It doesn’t matter how many cars he’s touched, Proko will always have a visceral (okay, sexual) reaction to feeling the slick, smooth, metallic body of a car. True, he would prefer to get fucked on the hood of a car than spend hours waxing it but still, that first touch is good.

“Open your eyes,” Ernesto says. Proko does.

The car… _Jesus Christ_. It’s beautiful, of course it is, but he knows instantly who this car belongs to and his mouth goes dry, his heart thumps painfully in his chest. He feels so weak at the knees that he immediately squats down, pretending to examine the nicks in the paint job. _Fuck. Fucking fuck._

“It’s nice, right?” Proko can’t focus on whatever Ralph is saying. His mind is buzzing because he’s about to spend all day touching Mr. Sex Me Up’s car. Sometimes dreams really do come true.


	3. Chapter 3

Detailing the Mitsubishi feels more like a treat than actual work. Proko can’t get over the stunning knife graphic, the way it seems to blend seamlessly with the original paint. Proko cleans the car, buffs out and fixes the nicks, waxes and polishes the body so that it’s smooth and shiny; he runs his palm over the knife one more time, sighing. It’s a beautiful car. He’s noticed that it’s full of custom items, too, like anti-radar gadgets, among other things. The glove compartment was an adventure: ridiculously flavored and textured condoms, packets of lube, label-less bottles of pills, a flask, a flyer for a drag race with someone’s number scrawled on the back. Everything Proko discovers is just putting more and more checks in the pro column of his mental _Should I Fuck This Guy?_ list. The con column is currently empty.

He wants to stick around until the owner shows up but he’s running out of time. He’s already stayed past his shift, idly buffing the pristine rims, lounging in the passenger seat inhaling the smell of the seats—smoke and spice and sex. Perhaps the true mystery of the car is how the seats are still unstained, looking like they’re fresh from the dealership. Proko checks his phone one more time and climbs out of the car. He’ll need to take the bus to the diner, which sucks. He hates the bus; too many people in a space too small for them. His palms itch for a set of keys and the welcome grip of the steering wheel. Another privilege squandered.

Proko shuts the passenger door softly, barely making a sound, not that he would hear it. His music is turned up and right now he’s listening to his _longing_ soundtrack, the one that’s so hopelessly emotional that it always makes him want to cry but he can’t stop listening. He breathes out the words, singing to himself as he bends over to retrieve his detail kit _Can you tell me ohh would you lead me on would you start me over I’m ready to be torn apart_

A warm hand slides over his waist. _The fuck?_

Proko spins away, back slamming against the Mitsubishi, his supplies spilling across the floor as he hold his hands up, poised for a fight. His pulse is wild, beating so high and hard that he can almost hear it.

“Whoa, hey, easy there.”

Proko blinks, pulls his headphones down around his neck. He’s gasping and he can feel his face and ears getting hot because, well, _shit_ it’s the guy. Mr. Sex Me Up. This cannot be happening. He cannot be losing his fucking mind in front of the world’s most badass, gorgeous, unattainable man.

“Oh, fuck,” Proko groans, covering his face with his hands. He wants to sink into the floor and just die. Clearly his time on earth is over.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” the guy says. He sounds closer; Proko peeks through his fingers and the guy _is_ standing closer, like right in front of him. _Right in front of him!_ His personal space alerts are demanding he either scoot around the looming stranger or catapult over the roof of the car. “I’ve been trying to get your attention. Didn’t know you were listening to music.” His voice is so nice, _God_ , Proko could listen to him talk all day. “Then you started singing. You sound good.”

Proko lowers his hands just a bit, so that only his mouth is covered. He feels like one of those damn “speak no evil” monkeys. “Really?” he mutters, staring into the other man’s eyes. His eyes are so dark, the iris nearly as black as the pupil.

“Really.” The guy smiles and for once he looks almost charming, not like seduction in a leather jacket. His rough hands circle Proko’s wrists, pulling his hands away from his mouth and for a second Proko thinks _shit he’s going to kiss me_ and his heart starts pounding all over again. But then the guy lets him go and takes a step back. “Let’s try this again?” Proko nods, breathless. “What I said earlier, but you didn’t hear me, was ‘Holy fucking shit!’”

“Uh, yeah.” Proko agrees. “Your car is amazing. Where did you get the knife done?”

“Oh, it was a custom project of mine,” the guy says, shrugging casually. Proko stares. If this dude can fucking paint like that… “But I wasn’t talking about the car.” His gaze gets so direct that Proko  _feels_ it, traveling from his face, down his body, and back up.

“I-I- thank you?” Proko stutters.

“No problem,” the guy grins. “You have an amazing ass so I feel like I should be thanking you.”

Every part of Proko’s body feels like it’s just been shocked by an electric current. He can feel his pulse pounding hard in places other than his chest. Like really hard, embarrassingly so.

“Are you fucking with me?”

“No, but I’d like to.” _Jesus Christ! This guy…_

“Hey, Ilya!” Ernesto picks the worst possible moment to saunter over. He’s beaming like he might have heard the entire exchange. Proko steps away from the car, away from the sexy mystery man; it’s more difficult than it should be. “Kid, you gonna be late.” He taps his watch meaningfully and Proko checks his phone and curses.

“What’s going on?” the guy asks, looking from Ernesto to Proko.

“Baby’s shift at the diner starts in—”

“Fifteen minutes,” Proko cuts Ernesto off. “Shit, I’m gonna be late. Thanks for reminding me, E.” Proko kneels down and starts throwing his spilled supplies into his bucket. His hands are shaking, from stress, from adrenaline, from being massively turned on and not having a ready outlet. The guy joins him, handing him bottles and rags. “Thanks,” Proko murmurs.

“Sure thing,” the man says, winking. He gets to his feet and shakes hands with E. While they talk Proko sprints to his locker, pushes his bucket in and strips off the coveralls. He’s sweaty underneath and he knows Buddy’s going to tear him a new one for not going home to shower before his shift. Maybe he’ll be able to clean up a little if it’s slow at the diner. He yanks off his shirt and pulls out the spare uniform polo he keeps here for just such emergencies. It smells like the shop but it’ll have to do.

He’s already clocked out, should have left over an hour ago but no, he had to wait around to see if Mr. Sex Me Up would show and then of course he was a total idiot around the guy… He jams his headphones on and heads towards the door, calculating just how late he’s going to be.

“Hey! Proko! Wait up a sec!”

Proko turns and sees Mitsubishi man waving him over. He doesn’t have time for this but he still jogs over.

“Hop in!” the man shouts. He’s in the driver seat, looking amazing. The music thumping from his speakers is loud, the beat hypnotic, and the lyrics… Proko closes his eyes for a second, parsing out the words. _Bulgarian_?

Of course he gets in the car. The guy smiles widely, his shades are on again, hiding those amazing eyes, making him look devilish, otherworldly.

They zoom out of the garage and onto the street, barely slowing down. Proko fumbles with his seatbelt and holds onto the dash as they take a turn going way too fast for downtown Atlanta. Pedestrians and buildings and cars flash by in a blur, the car’s engine revving and growling as they weave in and out of traffic, each sinuous movement of the car too fast and fluid for Proko to track. He can’t take his eyes off the street in front of them, certain that he is moments from his death, certain that he’s about to go up in flames, trapped in this beautiful car with this unbearably sexy man—

The car slams to a stop as the traffic light turns red. Mr. Sex Me Up swears fluently in Bulgarian, his hands banging out the beat against the steering wheel. Proko hears sirens approaching and his stomach sours. He can’t get pulled over. He can’t have any more incidents. And this guy… he has drugs, Proko found them in his examination of the car. _Shit_.

“Hey babe, don’t worry,” the guy croons, head tossed back against the seat. “I don’t get caught. Just you watch, we’re out of here in three, two, one—”

The light turns green and the Mitsubishi shoots forwards again. The guy laughs loudly, turns up the music, raps along with the song. He’s so fucking confident and reckless that Proko can’t take his eyes off him. Forget impending doom. If he’s gonna die today then he’s gonna die staring at this man whose name he _still_ doesn’t know, this man that he wants to touch so badly that he has to squeeze his hands into fists to keep himself from reaching over the gearshift and sliding his hand down the front of those tight jeans. Yeah, that would end well.

“My eyes are up here, sweetheart,” the man says. Proko blushes and raises his guilty eyes up just in time to catch a glimpse of a satisfied smirk.

“Can’t see your eyes with the shades on,” Proko points out. It’s an empty excuse and he knows it. He stares at the small facial tattoos instead. Two birds, he thinks they might be ravens, done in black ink and only about an inch tall. One bird flies from the man’s left ear; the other perches next to his right eye, just near the corner. Proko has enough education (only the best boarding school for the son of an up and coming business mogul) to guess that the birds probably represent Odin’s ravens. Proko leans over, daring, ( _so daring, so stupid_ ) and touches the raven near the man’s eye. “Memory?” he asks.

The guy jerks the steering wheel to the left, sending them careening down a one-way street. Proko thinks they must be near the diner but going this fast he has a difficult time tracking street names or landmarks.

“Got it in one,” the man answers. “Thought and memory. I had a brief obsession with ravens and things.”

“Do you regret them?” Proko can’t imagine tattooing his face. Talk about ballsy.

The man shrugs, making another turn effortlessly. “It was an interesting time. I regret some things, but not the tattoos. They’re mine, you know?”

Proko nods, thinking about the lip print tattoo he has above his left hipbone. _That one_ he regrets, mostly because the memories associated with it hurt so much.

Another turn and suddenly they’re sliding into the alley behind the diner. The man lets the Mitsu drift recklessly before pulling it into park.

“Time?” the man asks. The shades are off and he’s staring, looking every inch like the Big Bad Wolf, devouring with his eyes.

Proko swallows hard. “Three minutes.”

“That’ll do,” the man answers with a nod.

“That’ll, what?” Proko only has a few moments of confusion before he’s being hoisted over the gear shift, pulled onto the man’s lap and— _hey okay not the only one turned on here—_ they come together like a car crash.

Proko has both hands pulling at the collar of the man’s leather jacket, his hips grinding down helplessly. They kiss for what feels like an eternity and no time at all, desperate, hard, fast, like it’s the end of the world. Proko is feeling the kiss in the worst way, is feeling the man’s hands pressing under his shirt, scratching at his skin. _Fuck!_ He moans, loud enough to be heard over the music and is rewarded by a smack on the ass which _really_ gets him going, makes him bite down on the man’s lip and tug viciously.

They pull away with a gasp. Proko _cannot_ believe that the hottest makeout session of his life is happening behind his workplace. And he doesn’t care. Apparently Mr. Sex Me Up ( _please god please_ ) doesn’t care, either. Proko leans in again, only to be shoved back, up against the steering wheel. He starts slipping but spreads his arms out over the dash, gripping anywhere he can. Before he can think the man is grabbing his ass and grinding up against him, their breaths huffing out loud but barely audible over the Bulgarian rap. It feels _amazing_ but of course Proko wants more, his mouth is practically watering with everything he wants and isn’t going to get.

“One minute,” the man pants. That doesn’t seem possible but Proko nods, mouth open, chest heaving, fingers white-knuckled and gripping hard plastic for dear life. The man surges forward, pushes Proko’s collar to the side, and bites down on his shoulder. Proko tenses up at the sudden pain, stomach clenching and unclenching in spasms of desire so strong that he can barely stand it. And that’s  _before_ the guy decides to go all vampire on him, sucking hard at his skin which, Proko knows from experience, will leave a hickey that’s going to linger for _weeks_. Proko manages to get one leg wrapped around the man’s waist, pulling him in tighter, making the friction that much better, more agonizing. He leans his head back on the steering wheel and tries to hold on because coming in his pants before going into work? Yeah, no.

“ _Shit_ ,” he hisses. The pain radiating from his shoulder is only feeding his pleasure. Just when he thinks he’s going to fall apart the man pulls away, his mouth so red and wet that Proko _has_ to kiss him and kiss him and kiss him.

“Time’s up,” the guy says, pushing Proko off his lap. The bulge in his jeans is obscene and tantalizing.

“Bastard,” Proko pouts. He examines his shoulder and finds the dark imprint of teeth, the violent blush of blood like a crimson brand. He wipes away the saliva and adjusts his shirt, his pants, palm lingering a bit too long over his very sensitive groin. His breathing is still too wild but he has to leave now. Right now.

“Thanks for the ride,” Proko says, opening the door and heading out into the sweltering heat. His shirt is damp with his sweat, his pants feel unbearably tight, his shoulder is throbbing ( _it’s not the only thing throbbing_ ), but for the first time in forever he feels so good he actually wants to sing, really sing.

“Anytime,” the man replies. “I’m always happy to give you a ride. Or let you ride me.” He puts the shades back on and grins. “Whichever you prefer. I’m easy.”

Proko snorts, slapping his palm against his forehead, and shaking his head slowly in awe or disbelief.

“Okay, _Easy_ , good to know you have a name. I can stop thinking of you as ‘Mr. Sex Me Up.’”

Now the other man is laughing. “No, you have to call me that all the time, especially in bed.” He chokes on another laugh muttering _Mr. Sex Me Up_.

“Kay, well, I have to go, so see you around?” Proko waves, walking backwards towards the door. He’s already almost a minute late. He can blame it on the bus.

“Hold up,” the man says. “Give me your phone.”

Proko shuffles over to the driver’s side and passes his phone to the man and watches as he swiftly enters his number. He cheekily lists his name as Mr. Sex Me Up. Proko is regretting sharing that bit of information. The man hands the phone back and they share one more kiss, quick and light and _God damn it_ almost sweet. As their lips slide against each other the man breathes his name over Proko’s skin, “ _Kavinsky_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is the opposite of slow burn instant conflagration? I didn’t put any content warnings at the top but if y’all think I should or if you have tagging suggestion just let me know! FYI: I will be updating this fic weekly on Mondays. Also, here's a playlist I made for Proko. The song Proko is singing in this chapter is "Ready for You" by Years & Years and that song will be on my next Baby & Driver playlist.  
> https://8tracks.com/justdk/baby-doll


	4. Chapter 4

“You look indecent. And you’re late,” Gloria scolds. Her fingers twitch at her side and her incessant foot tapping indicates that she’s overdue for a smoke break.

“Five minutes,” Proko begs. “Give me five minutes. I’ll owe you.”

Gloria sighs loudly. She’s a grandmother of five, soon to be a great-grandma, and she knows how to sigh with feeling. She gives Proko another once over and shakes her head. “Boy, go take care of yourself. You’re gonna give someone a heart attack and it ain’t gonna be me.”

Proko blows her a kiss and ducks into the men’s room, locking the door behind him. The two urinals and the one stall look grungy enough to almost kill his extremely painful arousal. Proko turns away from them and faces the mirror. He’s a mess: sweaty, disheveled, his lips red and puffy, his cheeks and ears and neck flushed. With trembling fingers Proko tugs his shirt to the side and touches the bite mark Kavinsky left behind. _Kavinsky_. Proko says the name once, twice, three times, like he could magically summon the man. He decides to use a different kind of sorcery.

The seconds are ticking by but Proko has time for this—he’ll make time for this. Yanking his pants down to mid-thigh, pulling his shirt up and biting down on the hem, Proko pulls his damp briefs down and grabs his cock. The next part is tricky, fumbling one handed with his phone and snapping a selfie which he sends to Kavinsky, along with a message: _yr a prick_

Proko isn’t the most vain person on the planet but he has to admit that he looks fucking great right now. He braces his palm on the edge of the sink and starts jerking off, his movements faster and rougher than usual because he needs to get off now and get to work.

His phone buzzes and a message pops up on the screen: _fuckin hot_. Proko grins and tightens his grip. He runs his tongue over his teeth, tasting Kavinsky, all sweet and bitter like that wretched coffee he favors. The phone keeps buzzing, message after message pouring through. It’s almost like having Kavinsky here with him.

_you gettin off?_

_I wanna watch_

_c’mon baby I wanna see_

_is it good?_

_fuck me up look at yr face and that dick_

_yr so nasty_

_you look like a fuckign wetdream_

_I bet you say my name when you cum_

Proko barely stifles his moan when he reads the last message. He’s getting close and all he can think about is Kavinsky grinding up between his legs and biting him. _Fuck_. His heart is beating so hard, he feels his pulse racing in his throat, in each tender bite mark, in the pounding ache in his core.

The phone buzzes. It’s a picture. Proko’s breath catches and he gasps. His hand clenches, his body going rigid, and he scarcely has time to grab some hand towels before he’s cumming.

“K—,” is all he manages to choke out as he slumps forward and presses his forehead to the cool sink. His breath huffs against the mirror, fogging it. He looks into his wrecked eyes and he feels… good. Really good. The burst of euphoria flooding his body is at odds with the weak sensation that makes him want to fall to his knees. Proko pushes himself up with a low groan and cleans up. The picture is still on the screen: a close up shot of Kavinsky’s hand wrapped around his cock. The caption reads _red light. thinking of you_.

Proko smirks and washes his hands before replying: _you made me late_

Kavinsky’s reply is instantaneous: _lemme make it up to you_

Someone knocks at the door. “Just a second!” Proko calls out. He checks the bathroom and himself to make sure everything is as it should be. Other than the stupid smile on his face he looks okay. He sends a quick reply to Kavinsky, three thumbs up emojis, and unlocks the bathroom door.

Gloria leans against the wall, her fuchsia colored lips pursed.

“That was more than five minutes, kid,” she rasps. “We’ve got customers and I gotta go pick up Darryl’s kid before that asshat leaves him home alone. C’mon, get a move on.”

“Thanks, Gloria,” Proko says. He’s still grinning; his cheeks feel tight with the rarely used expression.

Gloria huffs and hands him her bottle of Germ-X, one eyebrow quirked knowingly. Proko can’t hide his blush as he accepts a couple squeezes of anti-bacterial gel and thoroughly disinfects his hands.

“Rake in some good tips with that smile, baby,” Gloria tells him as she grabs her purse and clocks out. “You can cut me a little sugar, okay?” Proko nods. “And be careful. There are some bad things going down around here.”

“There’s always something,” Proko replies. He ties on an apron and makes sure he’s got the right nametag. The time clock beeps as he enters his code.

“Yeah, but not like these robberies. It’s on the news.” Gloria points at the TV in the corner of the diner. The volume is off but the captions scroll down the screen, along with images from the scene of the latest robbery. Proko feels a jolt of recognition; it’s a bank located several blocks from where he lives. According to the story no one was hurt but still… it leaves him feeling uneasy.

“I’ll be careful,” Proko assures Gloria. “Thanks again for covering for me. I’ll make it up to you.” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop himself and his heart goes a little crazy remembering Kavinsky’s text, his request _lemme make it up to you._

“Yeah, yeah,” Gloria mutters and waves bye as she shuffles out the door. Proko shakes his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts. His mind isn’t a bastion of purity but he can usually keep his fantasies in check while he’s working but not right now. His control is off and he feels undone by the most casual words. It doesn’t help that “Suck My Kiss” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers is blaring from the jukebox. _Hit me you can’t hurt me suck my kiss/Kiss me please pervert me stick with this/Is she talking dirty/Give to me sweet sacred bliss/Your mouth was made to suck my kiss._ It’s way too in line with Proko’s desires to be a coincidence. He eyes the jukebox suspiciously and gets to work.

Proko makes his rounds, checking on customers, bringing refills, making more coffee. He feels like he’s floating; it’s the closest to being high that he’s experienced since before rehab and it’s fucking fantastic. Proko hijacks the jukebox and plays “Feeling Good,” crooning the song to Latasha and pulling her into a ridiculous dance that’s more full body swaying than the moves Proko knows Latasha can bust out when she wants (or when she’s being paid for it).

“Baby what’s got you all sensual?” Latasha asks. Her voice is gorgeous, sort of smoky and husky, like how Proko imagines a lioness would sound if lions could speak. “You keep giving me these sexy vibes and I’m gonna forget you play for the other team.”

Proko laughs and spins her once before dipping her and kissing her chin. “What can I say?” he sings. “ _It’s a new dawn/It’s a new day/It’s a new life/For me/And I’m feeling good_.”

Latasha smirks and whispers in Proko’s ear, “Translation: you got laid.”

“Not yet, almost,” Proko says. His smile is so huge that it feels like his face is about to split in two.

“Mmhmm.” Latasha leans against the counter, her chin propped on her hand, her eyes glowing. “So, what’s he like?”

“He’s… God.” Proko hops up on the counter, his legs swinging. Emil looks out from the kitchen but he doesn’t call him out, only rolls his eyes in a classic _kids these days_ manner. “He’s gorgeous. Tall. His eyes are like… wow. I mean, he wears these fuck boy shades all the damn time but when he takes ‘em off it’s like _fuck me_ , you know?” Proko shivers a little and rubs his arms. “He’s all tatted up. And strong. I mean, he fucking picked me up and hauled me around like I’m nothing—”

“Sweetheart,” Latasha interrupts, “you weigh less than a bag of potatoes.”

“I do not,” Proko replies, flicking his fingers against Latasha’s shoulder. “Anyways. He’s amazing. And he kisses like he’s going to eat me alive.” It suddenly feels way too hot in the diner. Proko jumps off the counter and goes to the fridge, holding it open and letting the cold air cool him down. Latasha snickers and taps at her phone.

“You got it _bad_ , little Ilya. Better watch out that he doesn’t break that glass heart.”

“He can pulverize it for all the good it’s doing me now,” Proko answers. Latasha shoots him a worried look but he shrugs it off. “Seriously. He could fucking destroy me and I would say _thank you_.”

“Hey.” Latasha grabs his hand, linking their fingers together. Proko can’t quite meet her eyes. He isn’t joking about Kavinsky or his self-destructive habits, but he doesn’t want her to worry. “Someday we’re gonna talk, okay? You’re gonna tell me who made you like this.” She squeezes his hand once before letting go but her eyes are still on him, assessing.

Proko pours himself a coffee and scans the diner. The few customers they have are finishing up; he’ll need to go around soon and take their plates, offer more coffee.

“L,” he finally says, “I’m going to be alright. Don’t worry about me, okay? I know you got a lot going on.”

“Hmm. That’s the truth,” Latasha admits. She studies her nails, long, acrylic, painted a lovely turquoise with tiny rhinestones at the tips. “Speaking of… you going to come watch me dance again? All the girls miss you.”

“Please,” Proko laughs. “I’m broke as fuck. I can’t even pay the cover to get in, let alone have something extra to tip all of you _and_ buy a drink.” Latasha works a second job as an exotic dancer at the Pink Pony, a “gentleman’s club” just outside the city. Proko went once, which was enough for him.

“Boo,” Latasha pouts. “Maybe your spicy new man can take you.”

“Bad idea,” Proko mutters. “If I get him anywhere near a stripper pole I can’t be held accountable for what might happen.”

A new group of customers comes in and Proko gets back to work, his mood a little subdued after talking to Latasha but it’s nothing a string of lewd texts and pictures from Kavinsky doesn’t cure. They’re so bad that he has to take another “smoke break” halfway through his shift. This time Emil is the one giving him the side eye but, as usual, he keeps his mouth shut. Emil’s silence is one of his better character traits in Proko’s opinion.

He’s texting Kavinsky (well, more like sexting) when Ernesto and Ralph come in. They’re deep in some conversation, distracted, their expression worried. Ralph goes to grab a booth and Ernesto comes over to say hi.

“Hey, Proko, you got a minute?” Ernesto asks. He looks serious and Proko feels his stomach drop. He hastily pockets his phone and nods.

“Sure. You want me to bring over some coffee? Are you eating?”

“That would probably be best. We’ll get the usual.” Ernesto raps his knuckles on the counter twice and joins Ralph at the booth next to the jukebox. Ralph is looking through the song selections. Most likely he'll pick something old. Sure enough, a few moments later, Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire” starts playing. Latasha groans but Proko smiles. He’s grown to love Cash, maybe because he associates it with working in the garage. He gives Emil the orders and takes two mugs and a pot of coffee over to where his bosses are sitting.

“Thanks, Ilya,” Ralph says, taking his mug of coffee and dumping in two packs of sugar. Ernesto takes his black and blows on the coffee before sipping at it. Proko settles in next to Ernesto, feeling dwarfed by the big man’s mass and aura of extreme manliness.

“What’s going on?” Proko asks. He’s a little worried that he’s done something wrong and they’re here to bust his balls.

“Well, kid, it’s complicated,” Ralph starts. He taps at his phone and shows Proko the news story about the bank robbery. “See, we were watching the news and there was a clip of the car they believe the thieves used and, ah, well, tell me… doesn’t this look familiar?”

Proko watches the video and the sick feeling in his stomach curdles. The car, only caught for a few seconds, is unmistakably Kavinsky’s Mitsubishi. The knife graphic is a dead giveaway.

“Someone could have borrowed the car?” Proko suggests helplessly.

Ernesto gives him a pitying look. “Unlikely.” He sighs deeply. “Ralph and I are kinda stuck, kid. We gotta report it.”

“Do you really? I mean, c’mon, Kavinsky isn’t stupid. He wouldn’t drive the same car after robbing a bank.”

“Did you find anything suspicious in his car?” Ralph asks.

“Uh, other than an ambitious amount of condoms? No.” He feels petulant but it’s the truth.

Latasha signals that their food is done and Proko jumps up to get it. His phone vibrates against his thigh and he’s dying to text Kavinsky and ask him what’s going on. He’s rational enough to know that it’s  _possible_ that Kavinsky is involved but he doesn’t want to believe it.

After giving Ernesto and Ralph their food he buses a few tables, takes some orders, keeps busy. He’s not intentionally trying to avoid his bosses but at the same time he’s not sorry that the rush keeps him too busy for more talk. Ralph leaves him a good tip and claps him on the shoulder as he gathers up their plates.

“Don’t sweat it, Ilya,” Ralph says. “I’m sure it’ll all work out. I don’t know how well you know this guy but please be careful, okay? And if you need anything you know you can call me. Doesn’t matter what time it is.”

“Same,” Ernesto agrees. He pulls Proko in for a backbreaking hug and ruffles his hair. Proko lets himself enjoy being held even though he feels fucking miserable.

“Thanks, guys,” he murmurs, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And just like that the thrill is gone. Proko shoves uneaten food into the trash, loads dirty plates into the washer, makes more coffee. That depressing switch in his brain flips to on, making every little thing feel like a monumental burden. His arms feel heavy, his head buzzes, and all sensations are muted. Even the songs on the jukebox can’t break through the bleak haze.

Latasha clocks out, then Emil. Jordan clocks in. Proko stays.

He stays late into the night because he needs every hour he can get. Finally, at 3am, he takes off the apron, washes his hands for the millionth time, puts in his earbuds, and heads out the back. He’ll have to walk home and at the moment he would rather just lie down behind the dumpster and die.

The alley is dim and his eyes are tired so at first he doesn’t know he’s not alone, not until he hears that unmistakable, sexy voice say, “Fancy seeing you here.”

Proko’s heart leaps; partly from surprise and anxiety but mostly from attraction that is so strong it hurts. He catches his breath and schools his tone to nonchalant bordering on chilly.

“I work here,” he says, staring at Kavinsky. He holds his ground, fighting off the pull, the intense desire to get as close to Kavinsky as he can.

Kavinsky cocks his head to the side and frowns, clearly puzzled by Proko’s cold behavior. He walks towards him, hands in his pockets. The Mitsu is behind him, the white paint practically glowing in the dark.

“Why do I get the feeling you’re not happy to see me?” Kavinsky asks. He standing so close that Proko has to tilt his head back to make eye contact.

“Look,” Proko sighs, “I am happy to see you but I heard a rumor that you could be involved with the robberies that have been happening and I can’t get dragged down in that shit, okay? I’ve got—I have some priors, from when I lived up north. I can’t get arrested again or I’m facing prison time.”

It sucks, admitting this, saying this. Kavinsky’s expression doesn’t change, though. There’s no judgment and that’s a relief but Proko can’t let it get to him. He takes a deep breath, tugging his earbuds out of his ears and twisting the cord around his fingers. He has to finish this, end it now before it’s too late. “So,” he continues, his voice quiet, “yeah I’m interested but I have to pass on whatever this is.”

Kavinsky laughs once. There’s no warmth in it and Proko backs up, Kavinsky following him until he’s trapped against the wall, Kavinsky looming over him. And it’s like so many of his favorite fantasies, all of it: the trouble, the danger, the absolute inadvisability of it. His hands are sweaty and he wants, so badly, to reach up and tangle them in Kavinsky’s hair, to pull him down and kiss him breathless. He wants his pants around his ankles and Kavinsky inside him, fucking him against the wall until he can’t stand. He wants and he wants and he wants but—

Kavinsky leans down, his lips brush against Proko’s ear, his voice is a quiet rasp. “You really think I rob banks?” Kavinsky asks.

Proko closes his eyes tight and nods, feels his hair brushing against Kavinsky’s jaw.

“I don’t rob banks,” Kavinsky purrs. “I’m the getaway driver.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs referenced/quoted: "Suck My Kiss" by Red Hot Chili Peppers, "Feeling Good" by Nina Simone, and "Ring of Fire" by Johnny Cash


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update is very NSFW! Besides the smut it also contains intrusive thoughts and self-destructive thoughts/actions.

_Getaway driver_.

The words make Proko reel, and the honesty doesn’t take any of the bite out of this revelation. The choice – what to do with this information – is clear. He _can’t_ get into any more trouble. And yet… the mouth-watering scent of Kavinsky’s skin is a strong enticement to stray. What has being good gotten him anyway? Part time jobs, a shitty living situation, and more debts than he can hope to pay off in this lifetime. He has no one to protect; his father has already cut him off and distanced the family from him. He’s at a dead end and a getaway driver might be just what he needs. As for the consequences… that’s a problem for the future, if he even gets one.

“Fuck,” Proko mutters, feeling all the tension go out of him as he slumps against the wall. The warmth feels good on his back and he turns his face towards Kavinsky, lips brushing against skin. “ _Fuck_.”

“That bad?” Kavinsky’s voice is low, a whisper. He tilts his head back, giving Proko better access to his throat.

Kavinsky’s skin is salty on his tongue, on his lips, as he slowly kisses down his neck. “Yeah,” he answers between kisses, “really, really bad.” Kavinsky lets out the tiniest gasp as Proko scrapes his teeth of his Adam’s apple.

“You’re not running, though.”

“Too tired,” Proko admits. He feels like he’s going to melt to the ground if they don’t do _something_. Holding himself up is too much work so he wraps his arms around Kavinsky’s neck, pushes his fingers into his waxed hair, tugging at the sticky waves.

Kavinsky takes this as a sign that touch is okay and slides his hands under Proko’s uniform Polo, thumbs caressing over his hipbones, the hot press of palms and fingers on his sides. It’s nice and good and Proko wants _more_. He rises up on tiptoes, enough to reach Kavinsky’s lips, tasting smoke and the sweet, cinnamon aftertaste of Fireball. Kavinsky’s hands push up over his ribs and pull him closer until they’re chest to chest.

Each kiss feels blindingly intense despite the agonizingly slow pace, or maybe because of it. Proko can’t tell. It’s like he’s not even breathing, just subsisting from one kiss to the next, hyperaware of all the ways Kavinsky’s touching him and _not_ touching him. Fingertips that play across his bony ribs like they’re piano keys, hard chest pinning him to the wall, the tug and catch of the leather jacket’s zippers teasing against his nipples and _how the hell is Kavinsky wearing leather in the summer_? The light brush of Kavinsky’s thigh against his crotch is enough to make Proko moan and push forward, aching for more.

Kavinsky’s answering laugh is dark, his voice all tease as he murmurs into Proko’s ear, “I thought you were tired? I thought you were telling me to fuck off.”

“I’m not too tired for this,” Proko huffs, dragging his hands from Kavinsky’s hair – leaving it a mess – and grabbing onto the belt loops of Kavinsky’s expensive, tight jeans.

“Feisty,” Kavinsky laughs again as Proko tugs him closer. “How about we get out of here first? I can get you a drink?”

The shift is so sudden that Proko wants to laugh or scream. Every single one of his bad decision impulses are raging at the delay. He doesn’t like being put on pause. His shaking hands go to the front of Kavinsky’s jeans and he hears himself saying, “I bet you can’t guess what I’m really thirsty for.”

He can feel himself disassociating, letting his self-destructive tendencies take over, eclipsing him like a wave. It’s a rush that he’s distantly aware of as he hovers above the scene, marveling again at how perfect Kavinsky is. He can’t stand to look at himself. Who is this scrawny kid with the fading hair and oversized Polo, looking so needy and desperate? That’s not him. He’s cooler, he’s better, he’s—

A hand grips the back of his neck, squeezing hard enough to bring him back. He blinks a couple times, feeling dazed. Kavinsky stares back with a baffled expression and he realizes that his wrists are being held in Kavinsky’s other hand, his pulse thumping hectically from wrist to wrist. Kavinsky’s jeans are unbuttoned, partially unzipped and Proko knows he did that, he just doesn’t get why Kavinsky stopped him.

“I thought…” Proko begins, feeling his cheeks flush even more, “that you wanted me.”

Kavinsky’s expression cracks, revealing _something_ before it’s carefully shuttered. “Oh, Baby Doll, _of course_ I want you.” He lets go of Proko’s wrists and cups his face with both palms. It’s so weirdly tender that Proko wants to cry. _Christ he’s a mess tonight_. “Let’s take a ride, okay?”

Proko nods and follows Kavinsky to the car, his feet dragging. Abruptly he truly does feel too tired for this, his emotions have been all over the fucking place today, his scrambled mind too preoccupied. He settles into the Mitsubishi. He can’t believe that this very afternoon he had been in this same position: wrecked by Kavinsky.

“What are you in the mood for?” Kavinsky asks, starting up the Mitsu and turning down the bass-heavy music thumping from the speakers.

Proko feels like he’s been put in time out but that doesn’t stop him from making direct eye contact and responding with a deadpan, “You.”

Kavinsky’s laugh is raucous and delighted. The car roars as he reverses down the alley before launching out onto the street. It’s later than late and the streets are almost empty. Kavinsky pushes the car, racing traffic signals. Windows down, warm night air rushing through the car, a new thrumming dance beat, streams of city lights—Proko lets it all permeate the moment. He’s saving it up for later, for when this will eventually crash and burn. Kavinsky’s hand strays over to grip his knee or thigh at the red lights and it’s beyond tantalizing.

Downtown Atlanta rushes by but Kavinsky isn’t distracted by any of the usual bars or clubs, the places that would still be partying at this hour.

“Where are we going?” Proko shouts over the music.

“The hottest place in town!” Kavinsky shouts back. His smile is white and wicked, all bite.

Their destination, it turns out, is Kavinsky’s high-rise apartment. The ride up in the elevator feels like a torture of self-control, watching the numbers slowly add up and up. _69_. Proko rolls his eyes and Kavinsky gives him a nasty grin in return.

The apartment has an incredible view of the city: thousands of lights, glittering skyscrapers, rivers of red taillights and golden headlights winding through the city on various interstates. Proko can’t help wandering over and leaning against the glass wall, tacky palms leaving very visible prints; he likes the idea of leaving his mark here, as temporary as it is.

Kavinsky leaves the lights off, letting the glow from the city provide the softest illumination to the shadows. Kavinsky strips off his jacket and tosses it onto the couch and walks over to stand next to Proko, his thumbs hooked in his front pockets.

“I thought we were going to the hottest place in the city?” Proko asks, admiring Kavinsky’s trim silhouette against the city lights.

“You have arrived,” Kavinsky replies. “Welcome to my current home away from home.”

In the dim light Proko can’t make out much but he doesn’t really care about furnishings, artwork, or whatever TV and electronics Kavinsky might own. He cares about what happens next, about what it would take to make this apartment the hottest spot in Atlanta. He spins, back to the window, fingers tapping against the glass. How thick is it? What would it take to make it shatter? From this height death is a foregone conclusion and—he blinks the intrusive thoughts away but now his pulse is pounding with a dose of adrenaline from imagining his death.

“What about that drink?” Proko asks, sounding a bit breathless. He needs to get his shit together. An entire day (a _very long_ day) of sexting and now, when it comes down to it, he’s feeling too scattered to focus. “And, uh, you got anything to smoke?”

“As a matter of fact…” Kavinsky walks over to the kitchen and turns on a string of dull red lights. His kitchen is surprisingly clean, the whole apartment is. Proko’s not sure what he expected, maybe something like the squalor his housemates live in or the expensive wasteland of his high school friends’ rooms: counters dusted with powder, liquor splashed on the floors, cups and cigarettes littering every surface.

Kavinsky gestures to a row of bottles and Proko selects the unflavored vodka out of habit. Kavinsky pours them both a glass and they toss them back. The harsh burn provides instant focus as the warmth begins to simmer in his belly. Proko leans his elbows on the bar, pushes his fingers back through his hair. He taps the glass again and Kavinsky refills it. He downs this shot as fast as the first and he feels it hitting harder, probably because, with everything going on today, he forgot to eat.

“Better?” Kavinsky asks. He’s drinking more Fireball and Proko wrinkles his nose at it; he’s had enough terrible experiences while drinking Fireball that he can’t stand it (same goes for tequila and nasty, nasty fernet thanks to the horribly debauched week he spent in San Francisco for Pride, years ago).

Proko shrugs before realizing how childish and sulky the gesture must seem. He’s off his game big time.

“I…” he pauses and tries to get his words to work. “Okay this is gonna sound so messed up but I really want you to fuck me but uh I also know what a stupid idea that is considering…”

“That I’m a wanted criminal,” Kavinsky finishes the sentence. Proko nods. “Well. We don’t _have_ to fuck. You can stay the night, think about it, whatever. Or you can leave, I’ll drive you home.” Kavinsky pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lights up, the tip burning a vibrant orange in the darkened kitchen. He hops up onto the counter and pours another shot, spilling just a little bit onto the pristine marble. “I’m a lover first, criminal second. The driving, it’s just for fun, mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“Okay, there’s a side of blackmail but I’m not really worried about it. You know, leave the team and we’ll burn you down.” Kavinsky grins, teeth flashing.

Proko laughs incredulously. “But you’re not worried.”

“Naw. Me, I always got an out. I can disappear the moment I want to. But I’m having too much fun, Atlanta’s growing on me. Plus we got a big score planned and I don’t want to miss it.”

“Hmm.” Proko wishes he had some of his stash so he could smoke; he’s craving a hit to calm him, maybe give him a little push in one direction or the other. “Just so you know, they caught your car on video, at the last robbery. My, uh, bosses showed it to me. I think they’re going to report it.”

Kavinsky looks unbothered by the revelation. “Are you gonna tell on me?”

“Pfft!” Proko scoffs. “No. You aren’t hurting anyone and I don’t give a fuck about you taking from banks. Besides, as I said earlier, it’s not like I’m innocent of breaking the law.”

Kavinsky snorts and stubs out his cigarette on the counter and flicks off the lights. His slow, sultry steps bring him close to Proko but he doesn’t touch, he just weaves by, walking towards the large bed, peeling off his shirt and jeans as he goes. It’s a nice show and Proko drinks in the new details: a map of tattoos stretched over Kavinsky’s back, down his arms, over his chest; more tattoos on his legs; his tight black briefs that don’t cover much skin. He flops down on the bed and tugs a pillow to him, burying his face.

The refrain from The Clash song plays through Proko’s mind: _should I stay or should I go now?/If I go there will be trouble/And if I stay there will be double/So come on and let me know/Should I stay or should I go_. He holds his empty glass in his hands, rolling it back and forth as Kavinsky turns over a few times, apparently trying to get comfortable. After about a minute of restlessness Kavinsky sits up and levels his gaze at Proko.

“Well?” Kavinsky asks, sounding – for the first time – tired and put out. “Are you ever gonna bring your cute ass over here or am I gonna have to cuddle this pillow to death?”

Proko chokes on a laugh. “Please don’t take your sexual frustrations out on the poor pillow,” he jokes and sets the glass on the counter. His footsteps feel light, almost like he’s floating, as he walks from the kitchen area to the bed.

“The pillow should be so lucky,” Kavinsky growls, punching it once for good measure. He’s sitting up, his elbows pushed back, leveraging him off the bed, one leg bent and crooked to the side and  _god_ _he’s gorgeous_.

Proko stops at the edge of the bed and slowly takes off his shirt, dropping it to the floor. His jeans come off next, then his socks, until he’s left in his briefs. He shouldn’t feel self-conscious, not after sending Kavinsky that mostly naked dick pic, but he does. It’s a lifetime of having his father, and even some former boyfriends, criticize him for being too skinny, and this is the skinniest he’s ever been.

Kavinsky’s eyes travel over him slowly, taking in his smooth chest, flat stomach, the ill-advised navel piercing, the lips tattooed above his hip. He’s glad for the deep shadows of the room that keep most of his scars hidden; he’s not ready for that conversation.

“C’mere,” Kavinsky murmurs, patting the mattress. So Proko does, crawling across the bed, feeling both seductive and silly. He crawls right onto Kavinsky’s lap, straddling his hips and lightly pushing Kavinsky down and tangling their fingers together. There’s a spark in Kavinsky’s eyes as he whispers, “ _Fuck_. You’re so beautiful.”

Proko quirks his eyebrows skeptically. “Really? That’s the route you’re going with?”

“I may be an asshole,” Kavinsky admits, “but I call ‘em like I see ‘em. And you. are. beautiful. So fucking deal with it.” His grin is lopsided and mischievous and Proko can’t help but laugh and lean down to kiss him. This is so much _softer_ than he expected but it’s good, his chest is buzzing with just how good it is as Kavinsky pushes up to kiss him back, their hands holding on to each other, squeezing too hard. He rolls his hips against Kavinsky’s once, twice, testing the mood.

And the mood is _definitely_ sexy as Kavinsky manhandles him, swapping their positions and laying Proko back on the bed and settling between his spread legs. Proko grabs at the sheets, the pillows, _anything_ as Kavinsky grinds their hips together, his hands heavy and dragging over Proko’s chest and sides, gripping his narrow hips.

Proko gasps, digging his heels into the mattress and arching up, his chest and face feel like they’re flaming hot and he’s wondering why they’re still wearing briefs and why this took so fucking long…

It’s as if Kavinsky reads his mind, his fingers tugging at the waistband of Proko’s briefs until Proko reaches down to help, watching with interest as Kavinsky then strips out of his briefs and reaches across the bed, searching the nightstand before returning, kneeling between Proko’s legs with a bottle of lube.

“You okay?” Kavinsky asks, one hand stroking the inside of Proko’s thigh, the other braced on the mattress. His hair is tangled, sticking up and falling over his forehead. The dragon that sprawls over his shoulder onto his chest ripples subtly as Kavinsky shifts.

“Yeah,” Proko manages to say. “Great.” He grabs the lube and screws the cap off, squeezing some into his palm, before reaching for Kavinsky. “Condoms? I know you have like a lifetime supply in your car.”

“But they’re in the car,” Kavinsky pretends to pout. And it’s a horrible idea to do this without protection but Proko is about at the point of not really caring. Kavinsky’s mouth is on his neck and he sucks, hard, as Proko slips his lube-slick fingers around Kavinsky’s cock, squeezing a bit too tight and earning a hard bite. He chuckles, even though it hurts like a son of a bitch, and presses his thumb roughly against Kavinsky’s slit.

“Fuck!” Kavinsky yowls. He tangles his fingers in Proko’s hair and tugs sharply. “Careful, little Ilya.” It’s like having the Big Bad Wolf telling Red Riding Hood to watch out for strangers in the wood—all layered with threats and promises.

“Or what?” Proko grins as he slowly jerks his hand up and down Kavinsky’s cock, relishing each little twitch and pull. Kavinsky reaches down and wraps his larger hand around Proko’s, smearing excess lube onto his fingers before batting Proko’s hand away.

“My turn,” Kavinsky rasps. He wraps his hand around both their cocks squeezing them together in a loose grip, rocking his hips forward, fucking them together so slow that Proko squirms, fingers raking down Kavinsky’s arms and chest, making Kavinsky swear, filthy words dripping into Proko’s ears, sending shivers through him.

“Get on with it, already,” Proko complains before Kavinsky swoops down to kiss him again, biting at his lower lip as he picks up the pace. Proko tips his head back on the pillow, gasping. Kavinsky’s breath puffs against the side of his face, the space between them shrinking with each thrust of Kavinsky’s hips, their bodies sliding closer and closer together. Proko finally manages to get his legs wrapped around Kavinsky’s sweat-slicked hips, trapping him tighter, pulling more of his weight down.

And it’s been _too fucking long_ since he’s had this and he doesn’t want to let go or give in, wants to ride the wave of pleasure, the sensation of closeness, for as long as he can. But then Kavinsky is squeezing them tighter, pumping harder and faster and it’s too hot and too much and Proko loses it, just before Kavinsky does. Sticky, hot cum soaks across his stomach and chest but before he can clean it up Kavinsky collapses against him, fluids and lube and sweat making them a slick, slippery mess. Proko laughs drunkenly, pushing his fingers through Kavinsky’s hair and kissing every bit of his face that he can reach.

Eventually Kavinsky rolls off him and grabs a towel from the bathroom and they wipe off and settle into bed, pulling the sheets up. Proko’s surprised and pleased when Kavinsky pulls him close, one arm wrapped around his waist, face nestled against his pastel hair.

“Are we really going to sleep right now?” Proko whispers. Kavinsky’s enabled the blackout shades, pitching the room into complete darkness, so Proko can’t see Kavinsky’s expression. He idly rubs his foot up and down Kavinsky’s leg, delighting in the full skin to skin contact.

“I’m beat,” Kavinsky mumbles. “I’ll fuck you in the morning.”

“Really?” Proko tries not to sound too eager. Fails.

“Mhmm. Scout’s honor,” Kavinsky promises. “Now go to sleep, Ilya.”

Kavinsky drifts off to sleep, his breathing evening out, and his body relaxing. Proko rests his head against Kavinsky’s chest, listening to his heart, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest. He wants to curl up in this moment and stay here forever. It’s safe and warm and comfortable and quiet. Here he doesn’t need pot and a playlist and a door of locks to feel calm enough to sleep. As he slides into sleep he remarks, briefly, the irony that his best night’s sleep will be in the bed of a getaway driver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got much longer/rambling than I expected! (who struggles with writing smut? me!) This is also really soft? and that's not what I was planning at all so... there's that. ha. If you're still reading--thank you! :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lots of smut ;)

The Mitsubishi screams into a slide right in front of Brothers Detail Shop, Proko’s high, excited yelp matching the remixed Beastie Boys track blasting from the speakers. Kavinsky laughs, his hand leaving the steering wheel to grab onto the front of Proko’s shirt and hauls him over for a kiss. Proko squeezes Kavinsky’s shoulder and kisses back as hard as he can, his pulse thudding in his chest and throat and the moment is so charged that all he wants is to get Kavinsky alone again and let him do whatever he fucking pleases.

The loud rap of knuckles on the windshield brings him back and there’s Ralph, looking _pissed_. Proko pushes away from Kavinsky and wipes his mouth, giving Ralph a slightly apologetic look. He’s not late, not yet, but he knows that’s not why Ralph is looking at him and Kavinsky like he wants to go all hardass dad on them. It’s because of who Kavinsky is, it’s about this sexy Mitsubishi being ID’ed at the scene of a crime.

Proko reaches for the door but Kavinsky snags his wrist, tugging him back.

“Don’t let them get to you,” he murmurs, sliding his shades down so that Proko can see his eyes. “You’re not doing anything wrong. _We’re_ not doing anything wrong. Just two guys fucking, right?”

Proko’s breath catches in his throat and he can’t stop the blush from creeping up his face. He nods once, feeling dizzy with desire as Kavinsky winks and kisses him one more time. He slips out of the car, slamming the door shut and swaying on unsteady legs as he watches the Mitsubishi go, dodging through the morning traffic.

“Ilya.” Ralph’s voice is flat and unhappy. Proko feels something inside of him cringe. He has a mountain of daddy issues and the disapproval in Ralph’s voice is making him want to shrink and hide and… “What did Ernesto and I tell you, boy? That guy,” he points at the Mitsu, which is almost out of sight, “is trouble. Bad trouble. _Jail_ time trouble.”

Proko kicks his worn sneakers against the asphalt, feeling smaller and smaller by the moment. He can’t deny what Ralph’s saying, can’t bring himself to lie to the man who has given him so much.

“He’s good to me,” is all he can think to say. Because it’s true. He barely knows Kavinsky but in the short window of time that their lives have intersected he’s felt… _something_. Desirable. Whole. His old therapist would say that this was unhealthy. His old therapist would be having a fit if he knew all the shit Proko had done and been through since rehab.

“Kid,” Ralph places his hand on Proko’s shoulder, squeezing lightly, “he’s not the only guy who could be good to you, okay? Don’t go hanging your hat on someone who is so clearly going to fuck up your life. Are you hearing me?”

“Yeah,” Proko mutters. Ralph gives him a gentle pat on the back and ruffles his hair.

“Okay. I just needed to say that. C’mon, let’s get you clocked in.”

Proko follows Ralph into the shop and punches his time card before changing into his coveralls and grabbing his kit. Twenty-four hours ago he was in this exact position, only he was about to get up close and personal with Kavinsky’s car, having no idea of what surprises lay in store for him.

Today Ralph puts him to work detailing an enormous Cadillac Escalade that is full of customizations. It’s a job that’s going to take his entire shift to complete so Proko pulls out his phone, selects a favorite playlist, and gets to work.

He loses himself in the work, starting with the interior, which looks like it was the scene of quite a party. There are a few suspect stains on the seats and carpet; nothing new but Proko still wrinkles his nose in distaste.

It’s only once Proko has very thoroughly cleaned the interior and started the process of washing and waxing the car that he’s able to reach zen mode, his body going through the repetitive motions while his brain zones out. Most days when he’s in this state his mind fuzzes out and thinks about nothing, just lets the music pour through his earbuds. He has lots of things he prefers to ignore so achieving this mindless state is a relief, a barrier against intrusive thoughts and flashbacks. Today though…

Today he lets the memories from this morning unspool, replays each moment because it was too good to be true and he isn’t sure if it really happened or if he wanted it so bad that he imagined the entire morning. He wants to capture it all in his mind, box it up and secure it for when things get bad again. Because they will, he can feel it.

The hood of the Escalade is smooth and cold beneath his hands but in his mind he’s not touching the car, he’s touching soft sheets, fingers digging in, his face half buried in the pillow…

—–

_Proko woke up early out of habit with the feeling that something wasn’t right. He was too warm, for one. And too comfortable. His mind slowly roused to consciousness and he registered the body pressed against his, the arm wrapped around his chest, the tickle of breath behind his ear. Panic surged first, then confusion, finally settling into understanding as he examined the hand curled over his heart. Tattooed letters on the knuckles spelled out the word DREAM and Proko sighed in relief as his brain finally caught up. He was with Kavinsky._

_It had been ages since he had slept in a bed with somebody, and even then it hadn’t felt as cozy or nice as this. More often than not he woke up alone or was summarily told to get out for a variety of reasons, all of them making him feel pathetic and used and unwanted. But Kavinsky had brought him here and asked him to stay and promised to pick up where they left off last night._

_Proko curled his toes against Kavinsky’s shin as he remembered K’s sleepy, sexy voice assuring him “I’ll fuck you in the morning.” It was morning. Proko’s heart beat a little harder, his body felt hotter already and Christ he really wished that Kavinsky would wake up soon. But maybe he should shower first. He had a day’s worth of sweat and grime from working two jobs and then coming back here and fooling around before collapsing into sleep._

_He tried to ease out from under Kavinsky’s arm without waking him but that was a plan doomed to fail. Kavinsky was instantly awake, pulling Proko closer and mumbling what sounded like “g mrnng” against the back of Proko’s neck, his lips kissing along the curve of Proko’s shoulder and back before pressing against his jaw. Proko squeezed K’s forearm, his breath catching as he struggled to reply._

_And it was a struggle to form coherent thoughts with K’s morning hard on pushing against his ass and the heat of his own arousal burning in his groin._

_Kavinsky sucked at the side of his neck, nipped at his earlobe and that got Proko moving, twisting around in K’s arms until they were face to face. Kavinsky looked entirely too good for first thing in the morning, his eyes heavy lidded and dreamy. Proko wanted to kiss that stupid smile off his mouth but he refrained, covering his own mouth instead and muttering, “I need a shower. And a toothbrush.”_

_Kavinsky smiled indulgently and reached beneath his pillow and brought out two breath mints, a handful of condoms, and more lube. Proko accepted the mint and stared at the other items suspiciously._

_“Do you have like a magical condom fairy that I need to know about?” he asked._

_Kavinsky popped a mint into his mouth and winked. “Something like that.” He leaned in and nuzzled Proko’s chest, the scruff on his face rubbing against Proko’s smooth skin and peaked nipples and fuck…it felt incredible. “You don’t need a shower,” Kavinsky said. “You smell fine and we’re going to end up a mess regardless.”_

_Proko flushed all the way down his neck and pushed his palms against Kavinsky’s chest. “I- I- I don’t want your first impression of me to be that I’m gross,” he stammered. “And I feel gross.”_

_Kavinsky moved back, putting a bit of distance between them, and tucked Proko’s hair behind his ear. “Hey,” he said, voice quiet, “stop that. You’re not gross. Want to know my first impression of you?” Proko shrugged and half nodded, unable to look away from Kavinsky’s dark, penetrating gaze. “I couldn’t believe a pretty baby doll like you was working in a place like that.” Kavinsky rubbed his thumb over the rose tattoo on the side of Proko’s neck, his lips parted as he breathed shallowly. Proko was so undone he almost swallowed his mint. “What did you think,” Kavinsky asked, “the first time you saw me?”_

_It was ridiculous to hold back at this point so Proko answered truthfully, locking eyes with Kavinsky. “I thought I’d do just about anything to get you to fuck me.”_

_Kavinsky’s eyes widened and he then he laughed, clutching at Proko’s hip. “Well god damn,” he replied, eyes glinting, “I’m not that hard to get. And the feeling’s mutual.” Proko tilted his head inquisitively. “I really want to fuck you.”_

_“Oh.” It wasn’t that Proko didn’t know that but when had he ever had such a frank conversation like this? And while being cuddled up next to the person he wanted to bang? Never. Proko swallowed the feelings that were threatening to eclipse the mood. He could get fucking sentimental later. “Okay,” he told Kavinsky._

_“Okay,” Kavinsky nodded and then kissed him, his mouth tasting as sweet and minty as Proko’s._

_Proko forgot about wanting a shower. He forgot about everything except this moment, with Kavinsky’s mouth trailing icy hot kisses down his chest, his target the lip print tattoo that sat low at the base of Proko’s hipbone. Kavinsky pressed his open mouth over the tattoo and bit down, hard enough to sting but not enough to break the skin. Proko winced, his body tensing up before being soothed by Kavinsky’s tongue dragging over his skin, up his hipbone and down, his rough stubble grating against the top of Proko’s thigh until Proko was a trembling, whimpering mess._

_“You good?” Kavinsky asked, his voice rough._

_Proko had to clear his throat before his voice was intelligible. “Yeah,” he rasped, and let Kavinsky roll him over onto his stomach and lift his hips up so he could slide a pillow beneath him._

_“Just relax,” Kavinsky said, busying himself with retrieving and opening the tube of lubricant._

_“Not my first rodeo,” Proko muttered into the pillow, watching Kavinsky out of the corner of his eye._

_“Is this what typically happens at a rodeo?” Kavinsky teased, rubbing the tip of his finger against Proko. “I’ve never been.”_

_Proko gasped and proceeded to strangle the pillow. He managed to mutter “figure of speech” before Kavinsky’s fingers drove all thoughts from his mind._

_But it wasn’t like Kavinsky ever shut up. Not that Proko wanted him to. It actually helped, K’s incessant dirty talk and praise. Proko couldn’t seem to stop blushing or keep back the needy moans as K slowly worked him open, his fingers deftly pleasuring him until Proko saw stars and squirmed, tightening around K’s fingers and trying to draw them further in._

_“Hey, easy there, Baby,” Kavinsky crooned, one hand holding Proko’s hips in place as he gently withdrew his fingers._

_Proko groaned again and felt tears stinging the corners of his eyes. “Would you hurry up and fuck me already?” he whined._

_“Yeah, yeah, working on it, sweetheart,” Kavinsky answered. Proko heard the condom package tear open and the slick sound of more lube being applied. Then Kavinsky was crowding him, kissing down his spine and making him shiver and quake. It felt like a small eternity of buildup before K was finally gripping his hips and pushing in… Proko did his best to relax and remember to breath, panting into the pillow, sweat pricking all over him as Kavinsky thrust all the way in._

_“Oh fuck,” Kavinsky’s voice was a hoarse gasp, his hands opening and closing reflexively, kneading into Proko’s hips. “God you feel amazing, baby.” Proko’s heart surged at the words and he tightened up, just a bit, making Kavinsky groan and smack him lightly on the ass. “You doing okay, Ilya?”_

_“Never better,” Proko said through gritted teeth. “You gonna get on with it?” Kavinsky had already started some extremely slow movements but it wasn’t nearly enough._

_“So demanding,” Kavinsky said breathlessly but he did get on with it, thrusting in and out at such a slow pace that Proko wanted to pound his fist against the mattress and shout at him to hurry the fuck up. He barely kept his impatience reigned in; biting down on the pillow as Kavinsky gradually ramped up the speed and intensity._

_Proko was used to sex being something rough and quick and not always good but Kavinsky… he knew what he was about and didn’t hold back at all. After all the sweet, nearly gentle prep Kavinsky shifted gears, giving it to Proko exactly how he wanted it, driving deep into him with hard, fast thrusts._

_“Ahh!” Proko realized that he was yelling, helplessly loud as Kavinsky took him apart. “Fucking fuck,” he hissed, “oh god don’t stop, please don’t stop, please…”_

_Kavinsky was practically plastered to his back, one hand wrapped around his throat, squeezing just enough to make Proko’s vision flicker._

_“I’m gonna bite you, okay?” Kavinsky asked, his teeth tugging sharply at the shell of Proko’s ear._

_Proko grunted an affirmative and arched back into Kavinsky, though they were pressed so close together he could barely move._

_Kavinsky mouthed at his right shoulder, tongue and lips hot on his skin and then…_

_“Fuck!” Proko’s yell was half strangled; the pain of Kavinsky’s teeth sinking into his skin was the final straw, making him climax so hard that his vision fuzzed out for several endless seconds. His body tightened around Kavinsky, pushing him into his release and Proko felt him go rigid and then boneless, collapsing on him for several moments._

_The dark room settled into quiet, just their ragged breathing and the whir of the air conditioning. Kavinsky pulled out slowly and Proko sighed, feeling empty but good, so, so good. He didn’t want to move, ever, and Kavinsky seemed to get that, lying close to him, lazily stroking down his sweat-slick spine, his dreamy, dark eyes fixed on Proko’s face. Proko blinked sleepily. He felt drugged. He felt happy. He never wanted to leave this bed._

_He woke up later to find Kavinsky still in bed with him, propped up against the headboard smoking a cigarette and idly scrolling through his phone. Proko tried rolling onto his back, grimacing just a bit._

_“Hey,” Kavinsky said, his lips quirked in a half-grin._

_“Hey yourself,” Proko mumbled. He squinted and looked around the room. It was still dark, the shades drawn down. “What time is it?”_

_“About ten. You didn’t sleep that long.”_

_“Oh, fuck,” Proko groaned, smacking his palm against his forehead. “I have work at noon.”_

_Kavinsky stubbed out his cigarette. “You need to go back to your place first?”_

_Proko shook his head._

_“Cool, then I’ll give you a ride to work. Won’t take long, you know me.”_

_Proko smirked. “I know you’re fast, that’s about it.”_

_Kavinsky reached over and pressed his fingers to Proko’s shoulder, tracing the aching bite mark he’d left. “Fast, but not quick.”_

_Proko hissed at the pain but, as usual, he had the contrary reaction to pain, getting turned on in an instant. “Speaking of quick…”_

_And that’s how he ended up on his knees in the shower, giving Kavinsky the best blowjob of his life._

—–

“Oy! Prokopenko!” Proko hears Ernesto’s deep voice only an instant before the big man is tapping him on the shoulder, jerking him out of his pornographic replay of his not so clean shower with Kavinsky.

Proko yanks his earbuds out and blinks stupidly at Ernesto, hoping that he’s not drooled or that his boner isn’t totally obvious in these baggy coveralls. He inwardly berates himself for getting so carried away at work.

“What’s up?” Proko asks, looking over Ernesto’s shoulder at the two people who are hanging around the shop entrance.

“Atlanta’s finest need to have a work with you.” Ernesto looks far too serious, not to mention troubled. “I _told you_ to stay away from him, Ilya,” he whispers, just for Proko’s ears. “Ralph says he dropped you off today. _¿Qué haces, hijo?_ ”

“Nothing,” Proko whispers back. “It’s nothing.” His palms are sweating, though, and his chest feels tight. He follows Ernesto and tries to keep his shit together. He can’t get arrested again. He’s not going back.

“Ilya Prokopenko?” The man asks. Proko nods once, keeps his twitching hands fisted at his side. “I’m Detective Jackson,” he flashes his badge, “and this is my partner Detective Riviera. We have a few questions for you.”

Proko can taste the bile rising in his throat and he swallows it down. He’s sweating now, a lot. He hopes the detectives can’t tell but it feels like his face is dripping with it. Ernesto places a steadying hand on his back and Proko relaxes just a tiny bit. He thinks of Kavinsky’s face this morning, how he looked absolutely wrecked when Proko made him come. He doesn’t regret it. He holds Kavinsky’s words in his mind as he faces the detectives: _you are amazing_.

“How can I help you?” he asks, proud that his tone is easy and his voice doesn’t waver.

Detective Jackson taps at his phone a few times and shows him the clip of Kavinsky’s Mitsubishi. The knife graphic is obvious and damning.

“I’ve already spoken with your boss,” the detective gestures towards Ernesto, “and I know that this shop serviced this car yesterday and that you were the employee who did the detail work.”

Before the detective can continue Proko interrupts, feeling so uncharacteristically ballsy that he briefs wonders if he’s been possessed. “How do you know this is the same car?”

The detective lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Seriously? How many custom paint jobs have you seen like this?”

Proko shrugs. “Only the one I worked on but that doesn’t mean that it’s one of a kind. Could be others. And check this video. No license plate, tinted windows so you can’t see who’s actually in the car. Could be anyone.”

Jackson glares at Proko and looks like he’s about to get nasty when his partner steps in. Detective Riviera gives him a sweet smile that’s borderline pitying. It doesn’t set Proko at ease.

“Ilya, is it okay if I call you Ilya?” Proko frowns but Detective Riviera is not dissuaded. “This is a police investigation. We need you to cooperate and tell us what you saw inside the car you worked on yesterday. If you refuse well… that’s an obstruction of justice. And we know you have a record. You’re on thin ice, young man.”

Proko gives her a nasty grin. “Technically you’re wrong, detective. See, if I say nothing that’s me exercising my right to remain silent. As you pointed out, I have a record. I know my rights.” He winks at Detective Jackson and shoves his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

“ _Jesucristo_ ,” Ernesto swears and grabs onto the back of Proko’s collar, giving him a shake like he’s a misbehaving dog. “Don’t be stupid, _chico_. Answer the questions.”

Proko pulls out of Ernesto’s grasp, gritting his teeth but keeping his mouth shut. He knows Ernesto is just trying to help, no matter how misguided his intervention is.

“Right, okay, man,” Proko snaps. “Look,” he turns to the detectives. “Here’s what I found: a fuckload of condoms, some unlabeled pill bottles, and a flask. Absolutely nothing incriminating and I’ll swear that on a stack of Bibles.”

“So why’d you give us the runaround?” Jackson asks while Riviera types a few notes on her phone.

“Maybe cause I don’t like being hassled by cops,” Proko replies. “Are we done here?”

“For now.” Riviera gives him a hard look before pocketing her phone and turning away.

Proko watches them go, his arms crossed over his chest to hide his full body tremors. He feels cold all over. And scared.

“Why didn’t you tell them I was with Kavinsky?” he asks Ernesto, so quiet that no one else in the shop can hear.

Ernesto rubs the back of his neck, his forehead furrowed and his mouth drawn down into a troubled frown. “Because… you didn’t ask for this shit storm. You’re a good kid, Ilya. Try to stay that way,  _bueno_?” He ruffles his thick fingers through Proko’s hair, the warmth in the paternal gesture is enough to make Proko’s chest ache and his eyes water.

“Yeah,” he mumbles and ducks out from under Ernesto’s hand. “I’m gonna finish up,” he points towards the Escalade.

Ernesto watches him go and Proko feels sick. His phone vibrates in his pocket and Proko pulls it out, quickly entering his pass code.

The image is baffling at first and Proko thinks it must be Photoshopped except for the gif underneath of Oprah enthusiastically yelling, “You get a car! And you get a car!” He stares in wonder at the fleet of identical Mitsubishis, each one sporting that sick knife graphic. His heart starts pounding as he realizes what this means—the streets of Atlanta are about to be flooded by a brigade of slick, Mitsu Evos. The only question that tugs at his mind is the bewildering mystery of where all these cars came from.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for assault, verbal & physical abuse, and intrusive thoughts. Basically a lot of hurt/comfort

Proko doesn’t hear anything more from Kavinsky for the rest of his shift at the detail shop, no matter how many times he texts. He chews at the inside of his cheek, biting until he tastes blood. His shoulder is burning from the constant rotation of polishing the Escalade and the bite mark is an epicenter of slow building pain. By the time Proko clocks out he’s so anxious about what Kavinsky might be planning and about the police that he is desperate for a smoke break. He leaves as soon as possible and jogs back to his apartment. His playlist has shifted from lazy, sexy songs to loud and jarring exhortations of angst.

It’s near twilight by the time Proko arrives at his apartment building. He passes a few dollars to the elderly vet who panhandles at the end of the block; he doesn’t give a shit what the man does with the money he just knows that someday, maybe sooner than he thinks, he could be in the same circumstance, relying on handouts. He pushes the thought away as he scales the stairs leading to his floor. His shirt is glued to his body; sweat turning the dirty white T-shirt nearly transparent. Proko tugs at the neck, nervously unlocking the door, praying that for once Craig won’t be here.

Maybe he used up all his luck this morning because when he opens the door and makes his way inside he finds Craig and Louis hanging out in the kitchen. They’re not alone, either. Louis has one girl straddling his lap, her mouth on his neck and her hands… otherwise employed. Proko looks away quickly and tries to slip past, hoping that the group will be so caught up in what they’re doing that they won’t notice him.

He’s almost safe when he hears Craig’s loud voice calling his name, his words slurring. “Ilya! Come on back here, man.” He hiccups loudly and giggles before continuing. “Come have a shot! We’re all having shots!”

There’s nothing he would rather do less but Proko returns to the kitchen, careful not to look at the handjob in progress. Craig’s guest, a college age girl, is passed out, her head resting on her arms. Proko doesn’t like that at all, not with Craig drunk and, most likely, horny.

Craig passes Proko a bottle of vodka, making an obnoxious, racist comment that he tries to pass off as a joke. Proko doesn’t bother to correct him and swallows down a mouthful of vodka, coughing as the strong taste of alcohol hits. He doesn’t bother to say thank you before turning to leave.

“Hey, hey, wait a second,” Craig says, getting up from the table to follow him. “A little hospitality deserves a little friendliness, right?” He grabs Proko’s shoulder from behind, his hard grip squeezing over the enflamed bite mark. Proko yelps, jerking away from Craig and slamming his other shoulder into the wall.

Craig’s drunk but he’s not _that_ drunk. His eyes land on the bite mark and something dark and nasty shifts in his expression. Proko retreats slowly, moving towards his room but Craig keeps following him, until Proko’s back is up against the wall and he’s got no exit. He tries to keep his breathing under control, to not panic.

“What the fuck,” Craig growls, grabbing Proko’s shoulder again and jamming his thumb into his bruised flesh, “is this, Ilya?”

Proko swallows his whimper and shoves both hands against Craig’s chest but it’s like trying to move a brick wall. “None of your fucking business,” Proko snarls. He gives his best tough guy act but his heart is jerking crazily in his chest as the fear takes over.

“You didn’t come back last night.” Craig’s breath is hot and it reeks and he’s too fucking close. “Where were you?”

Proko doesn’t answer and Craig slams his fist against the wall so hard that the door rattles. “WHERE THE FUCK WERE YOU?”

“Hey!” Louis yells from the kitchen, “calm down, Craig! You’re freaking out the girls!”

Craig ignores him, digging his fingers into Proko’s hair and knocking his head against the wall hard enough that Proko sees stars and tastes blood from biting through his tongue. The look in Craig’s eyes is more terrifying than the blow to the head. Even with Louis in the other room Proko is afraid afraid afraid. Craig shoves his body against Proko’s, his hard on pressing against Proko’s thigh.

“GET OFF ME!” Proko shouts, pushing and kicking at Craig, trying to twist away even though his hair is tearing at the roots and it hurts it hurts it hurts. He’s fighting with everything he’s got but it’s not doing anything but tire him out and make Craig even more furious and turned on. Craig grabs the neck of his shirt and pulls it down, ripping the fabric, exposing Proko’s chest and stomach and the dark purple and red love bites covering his pale skin.

“You fucking slut,” Craig gasps, his voice hoarse. And miracle of miracles he lets Proko go, like he’s in too much shock to keep fighting.

It’s not an opportunity that Proko is about to waste. As quick as he can he gets his door unlocked and is barely able to get inside before Craig recovers, pounding on his door and shouting abuse. Proko’s hands are shaking almost too much to get all of the locks secured, his heart slamming against his ribs like he’s run for miles at a dead sprint.

Craig calls him every vile name and threatens things that make Proko want to hurl. He can hear Louis outside the door trying to talk Craig down and he sounds sacred, too. Craig is a mean asshole but Proko’s never seen him unhinged and violent like this. The disturbing truth is that it was Proko that set him off, or more accurately, it was the evidence that he had been with someone. Proko has suspected for awhile that Craig’s obscene come ons were more than stupid jock jokes and it makes his skin want to crawl right off his body, hearing each lurid and violent threat that Craig makes. It’s worse than the slurs and the epithets, than the things Craig is shouting about him. Because the acts Craig is threatening to commit? Those are things that Craig actually _wants_ to do to him.

Proko strips off the ruined shirt, balls it up and shoves it in the trashcan. He’s trembling, goosebumps rising all over his skin and his teeth are chattering like it’s winter time and not the middle of summer. He digs through his meager collection of clothes and pulls on a hoodie and then he starts packing. Most of his clothes are already in the suitcase and he throws in the rest, smashing it down and quickly consolidating his other items, packing what won’t break and leaving the rest in one of the cardboard boxes. He retrieves his weed stash and shoves it to the bottom of the box, slapping a piece of duct tape on top to keep it closed.

The noise outside his door has died down but Proko isn’t stupid enough to linger. He opens the window to the fire escape and hauls out the suitcase and box. He carries the suitcase down first, asking the man on the corner to please keep an eye on it, and then comes back for the box. He makes one more trip up and takes the key to his room and kicks it through the crack under the door before hurrying back out the window and down the fire escape. He grabs his belongings and leaves, heading for Buddy’s. The man offers to give him back his money but Proko politely refuses, claiming it’s a tip for the guy watching his stuff. He trudges away from the apartment and the truth hits him like Craig’s fists: he’s homeless, again.

—–

Full dark has set in and Proko pulls his suitcase over the cracked sidewalk to the bus stop. He’ll be late to work but that’s the least of his worries at the moment. His scalp stings from where Craig ripped out some of his hair and his shoulder is throbbing. There are other pains from their fight, from being slammed around, but he counts himself lucky. It could have been so much worse. If Louis hadn’t be there, if Craig hadn’t zoned out for those few moments…

The smart thing to do would be to report the assault to the police but Proko’s never been a fan of the smart thing. Plus walking into the police station while toting several grams of marijuana probably wouldn’t end well for him. And he hates to think it but he doesn’t know if they would take him seriously. He’s got a record and even more damning, he’s covered in scratches and bites from this morning; he wouldn’t put it past an officer to think he was spinning a load of bullshit and that all of his injuries were simply the result of some really rough sex (not entirely untrue). So here he is, on the bus staring out the window and listening to The Offspring wail “you’re gonna go far kid.” He’s going nowhere.

Latasha takes one look at him and his beat-up suitcase and cardboard box and pulls him into her arms. Her long fingernails stroke through his hair so gently that he starts to cry, his arms hanging loose at his sides.

“Shhh, shhh, I got you, baby. I got you,” Latasha croons. Her generous body is so warm and soft and she smells like waffle batter and coffee. “Tell me what happened.”

Proko pulls away, brushing the tears from his face. He gives Latasha a kiss on the cheek and stows his stuff in the back before clocking in and putting on an apron. When he joins Latasha at the counter he’s relieved to find that the diner only has a handful of customers.

“One of my roommates beat me up and…” he almost can’t say it “I think he would have done… _more_ … if our other housemate wasn’t there, if I hadn’t been able to get away.” Proko rubs his arms, still shivering. “It was really bad, Tasha. I mean, I thought… I thought I was gonna get—” Proko shakes his head hard and swallows before whispering, “It was bad.”

Latasha takes his hand, rubs her thumb over his wrist. He didn’t realize it was bruised. “What are you going to do?”

Proko shrugs. He can’t think past his shift. He doesn’t want to think about where he’ll sleep next, where he’ll live. He has enough to crash at a dirt-cheap hotel for a little bit but that’s a stopgap measure at best.

“You need to report him,” Latasha says, snapping him out of his spiral of dread.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” he waves his hand, gesturing at nothing, “because cops won’t believe someone like me.”

Latasha cocks a critical brow at him. “Like _you_?”

He gets where she’s coming from so he elaborates, “Criminal. Gay. I’m a nobody, Latasha. Why would they care?”

“First of all, you’re assuming all cops are the same. And yeah, I know, it’s crazy that I’m sticking up for cops but my cousin’s an officer and _she_ would listen to you, Ilya. She would believe you. There are others out there like her. And if you don’t report him then your roommate just gets away with it! What if he does this again? What if, God forbid, he does rape someone?”

Proko flinches at her words and looks around the diner, making sure no one heard her. “I hear you,” he whispers, “but there’s other stuff going down that I can’t tell you about. If it was just my ass on the line then yeah, maybe I’d let you walk me down to the station and get me to file a report. But…”

“But?”

“Someone I know is already being investigated and I was questioned about it. My name pinging on the radar again? Not a good thing.”

Latasha shakes her head in frustration and taps her nails against the counter in rapid-fire succession, one after another. “Baby, why is it you can’t stay out of trouble?”

“‘Man is born to trouble as surely as sparks fly upward’,” he recites from memory.

“Huh?”

“From the book of Job. Story of my life: man has everything, man loses everything. Except without the whole praise God part.” 

“I didn’t know you were religious.”

“I didn’t say I was but years of Catholic school have a lingering effect, even on hopeless sinners like me.”

Before Latasha can reply one of the table signals and Proko goes over to help. He tries to keep busy after that. If he focuses on his work and the mind numbing tasks like wrapping silverware or doing inventory he can avoid the problems crowding in. Every once in awhile Latasha feeds the jukebox quarters and plays a song, trying to draw him out. He sings along to Outkast just to appease her and even selects a song, Lady Gaga and Beyonce’s collaboration, “Telephone,” because he knows she likes to ham it up dancing around and lip-synching with him.

The distraction works until she has to leave at midnight. Proko gets an unexpected rush of college guys, which means lots of hassle for poor tips, if any. _Distraction_. Two am rolls around and suddenly there’s nothing to do. Proko hangs his head and digs his nail into the flesh of his thumb. The cuticles are ragged and bloody; he must have been doing this on the bus ride but he was too gone to notice. He picks and picks, so engrossed that he doesn’t hear when a new customer enters.

Fingers pinch his chin and tilt his head up and there’s Kavinsky, leaning across the counter, his dark eyes burning with life.

“Chin up, buttercup,” Kavinsky says, the soft words at odds with the rasp in his tone. “What’s got you so miserable? You haven’t been texting me so I got worried.”

“Hmm?” Proko’s been in such a daze that he hasn’t even thought to check his messages since he got to work. Or maybe he’s been too afraid.

Kavinsky’s eyes scan him but not in the usual, sexy way. Like Latasha, Kavinsky is checking him over, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the new bruises.

“Baby Doll.” There’s a warning in his voice and Proko can’t meet his stare. “What’s going on?”

Proko’s the only one waiting tables in the dead hours between night and morning and right now they’re completely deserted, other than Kavinsky. He pops his head into the kitchen and signals the cook, Aaron.

“Hey, can I grab a smoke break?”

Aaron cranes his head to look out the window to the empty diner. He sees Kavinsky and does his own mental math about what’s happening.

“Sure. I’ll get you if a paying customer shows up.”

Proko’s savvy enough to catch the shade and he promises Aaron that Kavinsky will buy something when they come back.

“C’mon,” Proko tells Kavinsky. They head to the alley behind the diner and the vibe couldn’t be more different than the one from the night before. Proko pulls his phone out and scans the texts while Kavinsky lights two cigarettes. The thread from K goes from sexy flirting to worried to down right panicked. He has a string of badly misspelled and menacing messages from Craig. Louis, trying to be the voice of reason, suggests he come back in a few days. He promises that he’ll be able to get Craig to chill but there’s no way in hell that Proko’s going back there.

Proko takes a cigarette from Kavinsky and, as briefly as possible, tells him what happened at the apartment. Kavinsky listens without interrupting, his expression getting stonier and scarier by the moment.

“Okay,” Kavinsky says when Proko finishes, “now tell me exactly what that motherfucker said to you.”

“K,” Proko stubs out his cigarette against the brick wall and turns to face him, “I don’t want to. It was bad enough hearing it once, to have it stuck in my mind, I don’t want to say it, too.”

Kavinsky exhales hard and stares down at Proko. There’s no compromise in his eyes. “I understand that but I need to know so when I find him I can make sure he pays for all the ways he hurt you, physically, verbally, mentally. His words can tip the scales between life and death.”

Proko shivers but it’s not from attraction. “No.”

“What?”

“No, I’m not telling you. I don’t want you finding him and taking some sort of revenge for me. This isn’t a B-level action flick. I’m not the tragic girl who’s going to get all turned on and grateful because you want to be the macho hero. I hate shit like that.”

Kavinsky blinks and takes a step back. The yellow light cast him in a severe dichotomy of shadow and light. He always seems larger than life. Proko feels like an extra in Kavinsky’s story, just a new face passing through.

“You want him to get away with it?” Kavinsky asks. It’s clear that he’s appalled.

“I want this to be over!” Proko cries. “Jesus Christ, I’m tired! Okay? I’m tired of… of… everything. And this is just another brick in the fucking wall.” Proko smashes his fist against the wall to emphasis his words, scraping his knuckles and drawing blood. He wants to do that again. And again. And…

Kavinsky grabs his wrist and Proko realizes that he _has_ been slamming his fist into the wall. When did that happen?

“I…” Proko gazes up at Kavinsky but the words die on his tongue. What can he say? _I can explain_? _I’m having a nervous breakdown_? _I think about jumping in front of the bus every time I cross a street and I’ve wanted to die for years and I’m not getting better_? “I…”

“You’re coming with me,” Kavinsky says. “Call it macho bullshit if you want.”

He leads Proko back into the diner and into the kitchen. Aaron gives Kavinsky the stink eye.

“Dude, I don’t care if you’re bangin’ Ilya, you’re not allowed back here.”

Kavinsky ignores this. “He needs medical attention.” He holds up Proko’s hand as evidence. Blood trickles down his fingers, over the back of his hand to his wrist. Aaron recoils at the sight.

“Ugh, gross. Yeah, you definitely can’t be handling food like that, Ilya. What the fuck, dude?”

Proko shakes his head. He truly does not know what the fuck is happening.

“We’re going,” Kavinsky tells Aaron. He digs a hundred dollar bill out of his pocket and passes it to the cook. “If you could spin this in a way that lets Ilya keep his job I’d appreciate it.”

“Yeah, yeah, definitely.” Aaron’s head bobs up and down as he pockets the money. Kavinsky nods and pulls Proko out the kitchen. At this point Proko’s feeling a bit like a balloon on a string or a dog on a leash, being led at the whim of forces outside of his control.  _Story of my life_.

“Where’s your stuff?” Kavinsky asks. His tone is dangerously close to what Proko considers a dad voice. It’s making him crumble even more. Proko kicks open the small staff area, lets Kavinsky untie his apron strings and retrieve his box and suitcase. He goes to clock out but Kavinsky stops him. “Aaron’ll take care of that. C’mon, let’s go.”

They ride back to Kavinsky’s penthouse in crackling silence. The tension is buzzing so hard it’s making Proko’s teeth hurt. He feels like insects are crawling behind his eyes, it doesn’t matter how hard he rubs them they’re still back there, crawling around. Kavinsky tells him to stop, tells him he’s smearing blood on his face. Blood?

At the penthouse Kavinsky sets his stuff down and guides him to the bathroom. It feels different than it did yesterday. Maybe because yesterday he was blissed out on all those good sex chemicals and a solid night’s sleep. Kavinsky runs water in a tub that’s big enough to accommodate a threesome. While they wait for the bath to fill Kavinsky cleans and disinfects his hand, does the same to the bite mark. His touch is surprisingly gentle.

The only time Kavinsky leaves him alone is when he goes to retrieve a blunt and a beer. He sets them aside while he undresses Proko. Which is _different_. Because K doesn’t touch him or say anything, doesn’t even stare. He’s methodical and careful. He places a cool palm over the hot bite mark and frowns. Finally he helps Proko settle into the tub full of warm, soapy water.

Proko tilts his head back and watches as Kavinsky pulls off his shirt and removes his jeans. He keeps his briefs on and grabs the blunt and bottle on his way to the tub.

“Sit up,” he instructs and Proko does, leaning forward to let Kavinsky settle in behind him. “Alright, you can lean back.”

It’s better, having Kavinsky there. His shoulders relax, the muscles from his neck to his lower back gradually unlocking. He had no idea he was so tense. Kavinsky sparks up the blunt and passes it to him and Proko takes a draw. It’s a good strain, like nothing he’s had before. Very mellow and strangely without scent and it tastes like…

“Strawberries and cream?” Proko asks, already feeling a wave of relief settling over him.

“One of a kind,” Kavinsky murmurs. He takes a hit off the blunt and passes it back.

“It’s really good,” Proko comments and he feels Kavinsky nod.

They open the beer next, sharing it. Proko can’t say exactly what the beer tastes like but it somehow compliments the strain they’re smoking. It’s like having a dessert. Except it’s making him feel too good. Not wasted, but light, at ease. After they finish smoking and drinking Kavinsky has him dunk his head in the water so his hair is wet and, wonder of wonders, Kavinsky begins massaging his scalp, taking care not to press on areas where Proko’s hair was ripped out.

“Why are you doing all this?” Proko asks. He’s settled between Kavinsky’s legs, his back resting against K’s chest. His arms are drape along his body, hands clasped chastely over his lap. The water doesn’t sting the abrasions on his knuckles, in fact he feels like he’s healing the longer his soaks in the bath. _Magic?_

“If I don’t,” Kavinsky asks, “who will?”

“That’s not really an answer,” Proko replies sleepily.

“How about this, then,” Kavinsky says, speaking softly into his ear, “because I want to.”

 _How very odd_ , Proko thinks, a slow smile sliding over his lips, _how truly unexpected_.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW: sexy times. TW: alcohol + getting sick

It’s late afternoon when Proko wakes up. He’s lying in Kavinsky’s bed in a warm patch of sunlight, the sheets twisted around his legs, a pillow cradled in his arms.

He’s naked.

Proko stretches slowly and sits up blinking groggily. His stomach feels hollow and his body is achy but he’s not in pain. He lifts his hands and stares at the bruises and cuts, he presses fingertips to the bites and hickeys on his body. They’re fading, much too soon. It’s uncanny.

Proko slides off the bed and stands, feeling unsteady and more than a little out of it. What time is it? _Shit_ he’s missed his morning shift at the shop. He searches around the bed for his phone and his clothes but doesn’t find them. Where is Kavinsky?

Proko ransacks the closet and finds a pair of track pants and a white shirt with the word _bro_ on it. He pulls the clothes on and poses in front of the mirror. It’s kinda fun, dressing up in Kavinsky’s clothes. He paws through the rest of Kavinsky’s wardrobe, impressed by the fancy suits and amused by the number of inappropriate T-shirts he finds. He grabs the bottom of the shirt he’s wearing and brings it up to his face, inhaling the scent. It sparks a sharp, hot feeling in his chest that instantly goes straight to his groin. Proko stumbles back to bed and falls onto the mattress, pulling K’s pillow to his face and smothering himself. It’s a rush—being in Kavinsky’s bed, in his clothes, surrounded by his scent. Proko curls up on his side and shoves his hand down the front of the track pants. He’s already half-hard and it doesn’t take much to work himself up. He keeps the strokes slow and teasing, eyes shut tight as he pretends that it’s K touching him.

The fantasy is good, really good. Proko bites down on the pillow, grinding his teeth, wishing he was biting down on K. He pushes the pants down his thighs as he starts jerking off in earnest, his breath coming in gasps. He imagines himself trapped against Kavinsky’s chest, imagines K’s dirty talk as he gets him off and fucks himself between Proko’s thighs. Proko swears, a quiet _fuck_ , and comes on the sheets.

His ragged panting echoes in the large, silent penthouse. Then there’s a loud _creak_ and Proko’s head pops up as Kavinsky steps into view.

Kavinsky’s grinning, hands behind his back, and Proko knows he shouldn’t be embarrassed but he blushes and pulls the pillow onto his lap.

“That was really hot, Ilya,” Kavinsky says. He sits on the edge of the bed, his hands braced on the mattress. His eyes are alight. _Wicked_.

“How-how long were you watching?” Proko asks, his voice sounding strangled and uncertain. _God_. He’s gone down on this man there is no fucking reason to be getting shy.

“A couple minutes, at least,” Kavinsky says, shrugging carelessly. “I came in when it was getting good.” He smiles provocatively and leans across the mattress and taps on the pillow. “Thinking of me?”

Proko’s heart is thumping so hard he feels like it should be audible. His body feels too damn hot and he’s still turned on… it would be so easy right now to close the distance between them, to crawl onto Kavinsky’s lap and beg.

“Yeah,” he confesses, voice gravelly. He pushes the pillow away and drags the track pants all the way off and gets up on his knees, the shirt falling to his thighs and providing a scant amount of decency. He watches Kavinsky’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

“You look good in my clothes.” Is there a tremble in K’s voice? Proko crawls forward on hands and knees, settles on Kavinsky’s lap and rubs his cheek over the rough stubble on Kavinsky’s jaw.

“I know,” he says into K’s ear. “Why don’t you fuck me while I’m wearing your clothes?” He nips at Kavinsky’s earlobe, presses in close and ruts against Kavinsky’s stomach. “I want you to come inside me,” he continues, his hands digging into Kavinsky’s hair, “and later, I want you to come on my face.” Kavinsky grabs his ass and squeezes hard enough to hurt and Proko groans happily.

“Quite a dirty mouth you got, Ilya,” Kavinsky huffs, “I think you ought to do some penance.” He frees himself from Proko’s embrace and kisses him roughly before laying him back on the mattress.

“I prefer punishment to penance,” Proko gasps as Kavinsky spreads his legs and tugs him forward.

“That sounds like you,” Kavinsky nods before lowering his head between Proko’s thighs.

—–

Much later Proko is dozing against Kavinsky watching the sun set behind the Atlanta skyline. He blinks slowly and turns to nuzzle against Kavinsky’s bare chest. K pinches his hip.

“That tickles,” Kavinsky mutters around his cigarette. Proko plucks it from his lips and takes a drag, watching K’s exhale of smoke travel up towards the ceiling fan.

Proko passes the cigarette back and presses a quick kiss to the side of Kavinsky’s mouth.

“What was that for?”

“Just felt like it,” Proko yawns.

They’re quiet, watching the sun go down and the sky shift into a brilliant display of colors. Proko strokes his fingers up and down Kavinsky’s inner thigh, the touch more soothing than erotic. He hadn’t realize how touch-starved he was until he had spent an entire night and the last couple hours pressed skin to skin with Kavinsky. It’s so good it hurts. It’s so good and it makes him crave more: more touches and kisses and fucking. He knows he’s being spoiled and that this is too good to last but that’s okay. Because when he’s with K it feels like he’s not falling to pieces, it feels like things will work out.

“What are you thinking about?” Kavinsky asks. He touches Proko’s throat, tenderly probing the bruises. It makes Proko’s eyelids flutter and his breathing hitch.

“You,” Proko admits. He turns so that he’s facing Kavinsky, taking in the lazy, sexy curve of his lips, the heavy-lidded seductiveness of his eyes. “I still can’t believe you sucked me off.”

K grins stupidly. “What can I say? You looked so yummy coming on my sheets that I had to get a taste.”

Proko blushes and kisses him slowly, his palm cupping the side of Kavinsky’s face. “You fuck me better than anyone ever has,” he confesses. “Way better. I’m ruined.”

“Keep talking about me, Baby,” Kavinsky croons. So Proko does, lavishing praise. But he doesn’t say what he’s been thinking since Kavinsky brought him home last night, what’s been stewing at the back of his mind since he woke: _Can I stay_? _How long before I have to leave_?

They trade pillow talk and kisses and touches until Proko’s stomach growls loudly.

“C’mon,” Kavinsky says, pulling him out of bed. “Let’s get some food. When did you eat last?”

Proko shrugs. He feels lightheaded now that he’s standing. “We had that beer last night.”

Kavinsky shakes his head, looking like he’s angry with himself. “Damn, I’m sorry Ilya. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Hey, no worries,” Proko says, taking his hand. “I mean, I woke up and clearly my priorities were getting off not eating. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Kavinsky says, almost too quiet for Proko to hear. “Let’s grab a quick shower and then I’ll take you out.” Proko bobs his head enthusiastically and Kavinsky laughs. “A _quick_ shower, Proko, don’t go getting any ideas.”

“Would I ever?” Proko asks, pitching his voice to incredulity. Kavinsky rolls his eyes.

The shower is quick, the make out session in the shower… not so much. Kavinsky manages to find fancy clothes in his wardrobe that fit Proko and they get dressed and ready while listening to one of Proko’s playlists. Proko ignores the messages on his phone – which was in the bathroom – and snaps a ton of pictures of Kavinsky instead.

“Where are we going?” Proko asks as they take the elevator down to the parking garage. It feels odd to be wearing a nice suit and tie again, to be wearing anything expensive after years of secondhand or Walmart clothes. Kavinsky looks unbelievably hot in his black suit and tie and a shirt the color of wine.

“Bacchanalia.” He grins at Proko’s surprised expression. “We need to celebrate! You got out of a shitty situation and moved in with me.”

Proko stares at the shoes he’s borrowing and taps nervous fingers against his thigh. “Yeah… about that.” He sucks in a quick breath. “I ran away from an abusive place that I should have left months ago and now I’m freeloading. That’s, uh, more like an epic fail than a victory.”

“Hey,” Kavinsky puts his hand on Proko’s shoulder and tips his face up with his other hand. “You’re not freeloading. I want you here.” His lips brush against Proko’s forehead. “I want you. Can that be enough?”

“So you’re like my sugar daddy now?” Proko asks. He can’t hide the bite in his voice. He doesn’t know why he’s choosing this moment to be a shit. Lord knows he needs a place to stay but he doesn’t want to be K’s charity case.

Kavinsky laughs and presses in closer, crowding Proko into the corner of the elevator. “Does this need a label?” His breath is warm, his tongue hot as he licks at Proko’s lower lip until Proko opens up for him.

The elevator dings as the door opens and people crowd in. Kavinsky doesn’t stop kissing Proko and it makes Proko’s heart pound fiercely, the complete lack of fucks that Kavinsky gives. Proko grips him tightly, his fingers digging in and probably wrinkling Kavinsky’s nice coat.

Proko’s mouth feels sore by the time they’re in the car and he would rather go for round… 3? 4? in the backseat instead of go out for dinner but Kavinsky is implacable. They’re going to dinner.

Proko pulls out his phone and finally scans his messages while Kavinsky drives, Eastern European club music blasting. Apparently Kavinsky had called in to the shop and the diner and told them that Proko had the flu and would be out for a couple days; he has texts for Latasha and Ralph and Ernesto wishing him a speedy recovery. Latasha has more to say in her messages, asking if he’s okay and where he’s staying. He types back a short response giving her the basics of his situation. It still doesn’t sit right with him, relying on Kavinsky, but if K says it’s alright then maybe it is? Maybe he can relax and start over.

They pull up outside of a restaurant that Proko has only heard of but has never seen. He squirms and wants to tell K that he’s fine with something else. This is the type of place his parents would visit, a place where his father would complain about everything and act like an entitled asshole while his mother cringed and he and his sister died of embarrassment. He doesn’t want to see a menu and think about how much Kavinsky is about to waste on him.

He must have made a sound because Kavinsky grips his knee and makes a quiet, shushing noise. “Are you freaking out?” Kavinsky peers into his eyes, frowning a little. “It’s okay, Ilya, you’re okay. What’s going on?”

Proko leans back, his head pressed against the headrest. “It’s stupid,” he mutters, eyelids sliding shut. “My family… is rich. Disgustingly rich. We used to go to places like this. But I’m- they- my _father_ disowned me years ago. So…” He doesn’t know how to finish the thought. He waits for Kavinsky to turn the car on and drive them away but he doesn’t.

“My family is the same. Rich, I mean,” Kavinsky tells him. His hand moves from Proko’s knee up his leg to rest on his thigh. “My father is – was – a bad person. Like mafia bad. My mother is a rich bitch junkie. They’re as shitty as they come. So I know what it’s like, in some ways.” He sucks in a sharp breath before continuing. “I killed my father.”

Proko’s eyes fly open and he jerks around in his seat, staring at Kavinsky. It’s like he’s never seen him before. “The fuck?” he gasps.

Kavinsky moves his hands to the steering wheel and absently traces the stitching holding the leather together. “It was self-defense,” he says. “My father tried to kill me but I got him first. It was a long time ago.”

“Fuck,” Proko says again, “fuck, K, I’m so sorry. Jesus.”

Kavinsky shakes his head. “No, I’m sorry. You don’t need to worry about me. I don’t know why I said that—”

“Hey,” Proko grabs Kavinsky’s wrist, squeezing. “I’m glad you did. I’ve been feeling like this, this absolute fuckup and you always seem so, like you got your shit together…”

“But then I confess to having killed someone?” Kavinsky’s tone is wry. “As far as fuckups go, it’s pretty difficult to top that.”

Proko’s mind is whirling. There’s so much they don’t know about each other and he feels all the hidden ugliness in his past clamoring to be let out. He wants to tell Kavinsky but it doesn’t feel like the right time. He glances at the restaurant again, feeling uneasy.

“For what it’s worth,” he says quietly, “I don’t think you’re a fuckup. I don’t know what you’re doing here, being a getaway driver. And I don’t know why you decided I was worth a damn.” Proko picks at his thumb, tearing the skin open again. “But I think I’m lucky that I got to meet you and, uh, get close to you.”

Proko swallows and looks at Kavinsky’s hands. How is it that fucking is so easy for him but talking about real shit makes him feel like an idiot? All those therapy sessions and he still chokes. Where is his rewind button? Can they just pretend this entire awkward conversation didn’t happen? Fuck buddies don’t need to know about your past or involve themselves with your struggles. Isn’t that what he needed? Simplicity, no strings, no one to get hurt by him?

Proko is still wallowing in self-recrimination when Kavinsky reaches over, cups his face in his hands, and kisses him. It’s a different kiss than the ones Kavinsky’s given him before; it’s like the anxious, hungry, neediness that Proko feels like he’s always channeling is pouring out of Kavinsky. It’s a nonverbal plea or thank you or both. And Proko can’t help but feel pleased that Kavinsky is giving him this, being open like this.

When Kavinsky pulls away they’re both breathless. Proko feels dazed, almost swoony. He opens his mouth to say something – he’s not sure what – but Kavinsky stops him.

“Dinner.” Kavinsky says firmly. “You look like you’re about to pass out and I’m starving.” Proko nods weakly and gets out of the car and follows Kavinsky.

Kavinsky gives a name to the hostess and she flashes him a bright smile and directs them to a table. Proko frowns at how easy this is. Did K have reservations? The restaurant is packed; there’s no way they could just walk in and have a free table. He follows Kavinsky, trying to dismiss his anxiety by focusing on the way Kavinsky’s suit is perfectly fitted; hugging his body and making him look sexy as hell. The suit he’s wearing is a bit too big and he pushes back the sleeves, feeling uncomfortable. _No one is staring_ he thinks. But they are. He can feel eyes on him and it makes his skin prickle. He glances at the tattoos covering K’s hands and fingers, touches the tattoos on his wrist and neck—what must these people think of them? He tugs at his hair out of self-conscious habit.

They’re seated at a cozy corner table and Kavinsky scans the menu while Proko nervously jiggles his leg until Kavinsky squeezes his thigh.

“Sorry,” Proko whispers, “I’m kind of freaking out.”

“I noticed,” Kavinsky smiles. “You’ll feel better once you eat.”

A waiter shows up at their table and Kavinsky orders for them, for which Proko is grateful because, truthfully, he feels incapable of looking at the luxurious menu and making a decision.

Their waiter returns shortly with water and wine, then their appetizer. Proko tries to eat slowly, tries to enjoy the caviar and the wine but his stomach’s not used to this type of food anymore. Every bite feels like a battle. He pushes the plate towards Kavinsky and gives him an off kilter smile.

“Not good?” K asks before sipping his wine. Proko gets lost for a second staring at his mouth, his eyes, the way he’s got his hair styled making him look like some glamorous gangster. Is this the real K? Or is it the fuckboy in the Mitsubishi? Or the guy who brought him home and took a fucking bubble bath with him?

“It’s, ah, good,” Proko stumbles. “But I’ve been living off waffles and hash browns for awhile so this is like… a lot.”

Kavinsky nods and pours them more wine. He finishes off the caviar and Proko feels relieved; he hates seeing food go to waste. The next course arrives and Proko does his best to eat as much as he can. He drinks more than he eats and it takes its toll, making him feel warm and loose. He realizes, abruptly, that he’s been talking for several minutes – about Latasha – and that K has been grinning at him the entire time, wine glass in one hand. He realizes that their fingers are laced together on top of the table, that he’s been rubbing his thumb against Kavinsky’s. He stops midsentence and stares at their hands in confusion. The waiter comes to take away their plates and bring more food. Proko frees Kavinsky’s hand and looks down at the plate of pasta in despair. There’s no way he can eat this. What course are they even on now?

“You were saying, Latasha said what to the rude customer?” Kavinsky prompts. He twirls pasta on his fork and manages to get it in his mouth without making a mess. Proko feels duly impressed. And drunk. He’s not touching the pasta because this will only end in tears. He drinks more wine because fuck it, he can still manage that much.

“Right, right, so she looks at him and smiles all sweet and says, ‘Well bless your heart, honey, looks like your momma—’” Proko stops the story, distracted by the drop-dead gorgeous woman heading towards their table. She’s tall, blonde, fit, wearing a black dress and heels that scream ‘femme fatale.’ She catches Proko’s eye and puts her finger to her red, red lips and winks.

Kavinsky gives Proko an odd look and glances over his shoulder, his expression immediately shifting into a façade of cocky arrogance.

“Shoot, I was planning to surprise you!” the woman says. She’s smiling like she has Kavinsky right where she wants him. “You ruined the moment, Joey. I was going to walk up, pose dramatically next to the table, hand on my hip, flip my hair back and say, ‘ _Well hello boys_.’” Her voice gets deep and sultry on the last bit. Dead sexy. Proko bites the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something stupid.

“Hello yourself,” Kavinsky leers. “Daddy know you’re out dressed like that?”

The woman smacks Kavinsky’s cheek, not hard but it still makes a loud pop.

“Easy there, tiger,” she growls and tugs on K’s earlobe.

Proko watches, stunned. Who the fuck is this lady?

“Joey,” the woman continues, “stop being rude and introduce me to your date.” She frees Kavinsky’s ear and turns her gaze on Proko. It feels like being attacked by piranhas.

The look in Kavinsky’s eyes is pure venom but it’s only there for a moment before he’s smiling genially and taking Proko’s hand again, squeezing.

“Ilya, this is my boss, Piper. Piper, this is Ilya.” Proko is glad that Kavinsky is holding his hand because that makes it impossible for him and Piper to shake.

“It’s good to meet you,” Proko says, nodding and managing a small, polite smile.

“Oh, this one has manners!” Piper laughs, poking Kavinsky’s arm. “The pleasure, Ilya, is all mine.” She turns and wraps an arm around Kavinsky’s shoulders, her long nails look like they’re digging in. “Joey, come have a smoke with me.”

“Sure,” Kavinsky mutters. He squeezes Proko’s hand once more before letting go. “I’ll be right back,” he whispers.

Proko watches them go, the queasy feeling in his stomach building and building until he feels ill. He stands and tries to gracefully navigate through the tables. The wine goes straight to his head and every move requires his upmost attention. He barely makes it to the posh restroom before he’s on his knees in front of a spotless toilet, throwing up hundreds of dollars worth of food and wine. His throat burns and his eyes are watering, tears and snot drip down his face and he’s got vomit on his chin, not to mention his stomach still feels like it’s trying to twist and fold up like origami. He takes a breath and heaves again, coughing up bile.

He’s distantly aware that there are other people in the restroom. But he remembered to latch the door so at least they can’t see him. Proko grabs a handful of toilet paper and wipes his face before flushing the toilet. A quick inspection reveals that he managed to not make a mess of Kavinsky’s suit but that’s the only good news. He’s sprawled on the floor of the bathroom of an upscale restaurant, smelling like sick, and sweating. He gags again and blows his nose, wipes at his eyes. _Ugh_. He needs to get up before K realizes he’s missing but his head is spinning and his legs don’t want to do what he’s telling them to do. He scrambles in his pocket for his phone and sends a short text: **sick in bathroom. i’m sorry.** It’s a struggle to hold onto consciousness…

“Proko?” Kavinsky’s voice is too loud in the small room and Proko winces before remembering that he has to answer.

“Here.” He sticks a hand under the door of the stall and then there’s Kavinsky, on his hands and knees, peering under the door.

“Hey babe,” Kavinsky says, he doesn’t sound mad, just worried, “you look like shit.”

“Mannnn…” Proko slurs, “I feel like shit.”

“Mmhmm. Can you unlock the door?” K stands up so Proko can only see his shoes.

Proko doesn’t bother answering. He crawls to the door and lifts his arm up and, after several attempts, gets the lock to slide back. The door opens and Kavinsky joins him in the stall, pressing his cool hand to Proko’s face and neck. He carefully unknots the tie around Proko’s throat and undoes the first couple buttons of his shirt.

“Are you tryin’ to take advantage of me?” Proko mumbles. It’s like there are two Kavinskys in front of him, both of them weaving around. It makes him want to gag.

“Here.” Kavinsky puts a mint on his tongue and Proko sucks on it. “Didn’t know you were such a light weight,” Kavinsky adds as he gets his arms around Proko and pulls him up.

“Lost my tolerance,” Proko moans, “after rehab.” _Shit did he tell Kavinsky about rehab_?

“You’ll have to tell me about that,” Kavinsky says, guiding him out of the stall. “Now just keep your mouth closed and your head down. We’re getting out of here and it would be best if you’re not sick again.” Proko nods and immediately regrets it.

Somehow they get outside and into the Mitsubishi. Kavinsky buckles him in and then slides into the driver’s seat. Proko rolls his head to the side, squinting until K is in focus.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “I’m the… worst date… ever.”

“Oh, Baby,” Kavinsky says, his hand brushing back Proko’s messy hair, “no. You just wait. Once you’re sobered up I’m gonna tell you about the worst dates ever. This one? Doesn’t even make the list.” He leans in and kisses the top of Proko’s head.

And that’s all it takes to make Proko bawl the whole fucking way home. Home – Kavinsky’s – _fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let it be known that I have zero life experience visiting posh restaurants but I have way too much experience getting trashed (all in the past). Also, sorry that this update is kind of a shitshow (K confessing to murder right before dinner??? I reread that and laughed like wtf dude). The guys have a lot to talk about next update. Also also: PIPER!!!!! I don’t think I can do her justice but I’ll try.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW: contains SMUT  
> TW: mentions of past self harm, suicide attempt, abuse

Proko feels resigned as he stands beneath the shower head, mouth open, letting the hot water wash over his face and fill his mouth. He tilts his head to the side and spits. His balance is shit so he lowers himself to the shower floor and stares up at the ceiling, blinking miserably and praying that the queasy feeling will go away. The shower is large enough for him to stretch out on the tile. Water drums over his chest and stomach, rolls along his arms and legs, pooling around his feet before circling down the drain. He could fall asleep right here… but if he gets up he’ll have Kavinsky and a soft bed.

With that motivational thought Proko clambers to his feet and turns off the water. He’s still unsteady as he dries off and wraps a towel around his waist. He avoids his reflection in the mirror out of habit and pads out of the bathroom.

The apartment is almost completely dark; the light over the kitchen sink is the only source of illumination, spilling a pale white glow into the space. Kavinsky straddles one of the bar stools, his head bowed over his phone, the cool blue light from the screen dancing over his face. He’s way too good looking. Proko lingers beside the bed, taking a moment to memorize Kavinsky’s features, mentally compiling a playlist of all the songs that remind him of K.

Kavinsky looks up from his phone and sees Proko watching him. The tight line of his mouth relaxes into a smirk.

“You trying to seduce me? Or are you too tired to get dressed?”

Proko shrugs and folds his arms over his stomach. His ribs poke against his arms and his knuckles brush his sharp hipbones. He sways a little and stumbles forward, the towel inching further down, revealing a trail of dark hair. (Kavinsky had been stupidly amused when he had discovered that Proko was not a natural blonde, though why he would think that when Proko’s eyebrows were so dark was the real joke.)

“Tired,” Proko mumbles. He looks around for his bag and wonders if it’s worth it to get dressed or if he should just get into bed naked. He’ll probably – hopefully – end up naked regardless.

Kavinsky sets his phone down and goes over to his dresser, digging around until he finds a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt.

“Arms up,” he prompts Proko.

Proko obediently lifts his arms and lets Kavinsky drape the huge shirt over him. The sleeves hang all the way down to his elbows. Despite being too worn out to feel up for seduction, Proko can’t help the way his heart starts jumping when Kavinsky is standing so close to him, especially when Kavinsky’s hands glide over his hips, pushing the towel off. The length of the T-shirt keeps him from being exposed, which is a shame. Proko wants Kavinsky’s hands all over him. The desire to be touched and seen is at odds with his deeply ingrained self-loathing; Proko doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to play his usual mind fuck games. _If he sees how disgusting I am and still wants to fuck me then that means he’s sick, too. Because no one normal would want me, they just take and never see me. It’s okay if he’s fucked up like me, then maybe he won’t hate me, and maybe he won’t make me leave._

“Here.” Kavinsky kneels and holds the sweatpants open. “Hold onto my shoulders to keep your balance, okay?” Proko’s hands shake almost as much as his legs but he holds tight to Kavinsky and steps into the pants, Kavinsky helping to pull the fabric up past his feet. Kavinsky tugs the pants up and tightens the drawstring to keep them cinched around Proko’s narrow hips. Proko digs his fingers into Kavinsky’s shoulders, his heart thumping so hard it hurts as he stares down and meets Kavinsky’s gaze.

“Hey, don’t look so sad,” Kavinsky says. He cups his hands behind Proko’s knees and squeezes.

“I’m not,” Proko replies. His voice is rough and low and _fuck it_ he does sound sad. “You…” he clears his throat and tries again. “You make me feel so fucking good that I can’t take it.”

It’s pretty dark so Proko can’t be sure of Kavinsky’s expression but for a moment he looks like he’s in pain. Then he laughs softly and butts his head against Proko’s hip, nuzzling his face dangerously close to Proko’s crotch.

“K—” Proko moans in protest but Kavinsky ignores him, pushing his shirt up and kissing the taut skin above his navel before blowing a raspberry on his stomach. It’s so unexpected that Proko yelps in surprise and pushes Kavinsky back, which upsets his own balance and sends him toppling onto the bed.

“What the fuck!” Proko laughs. He presses his hand to the wet patch on his stomach and curls up, laughing so much he’s hiccupping.

 _“What the fuck!”_ Kavinsky parrots. He flops on the bed and rolls Proko onto his back, straddling him and leaning down to nip at his ear. Proko snorts and pushes Kavinsky’s face away.

“Why are you like this?” he gasps between hiccups.

Kavinsky gnaws at his shoulder for a moment, his hands under Proko’s shirt tickling at his ribs. Their legs knock together and Proko feels breathless and light, shocked out his spiraling thoughts.

“Come eat this toast I made and I’ll tell you,” Kavinsky answers. He raises his eyebrows expectantly. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, Baby. I can make toast for fuck’s sake.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Proko protests but he can’t keep the smile out of his voice.

“Whatever.” Kavinsky hauls him off the bed and tugs him towards the kitchen.

—–

After eating a couple slices of avocado toast and drinking several glasses of water, Proko feels human again. Kavinsky sips from a beer and scrolls through his phone, playing various songs and testing Proko to see if he knows them or not. So far Proko has guessed every one, getting both the song name and artist.

“Here, let me see that,” Proko says. He wipes his hands against the sweatpants and takes Kavinsky’s phone. He types a song into the Youtube search bar and plays it. The song is unlike any that Kavinsky’s chosen, it’s an oldie and a slow song, the singer’s sultry voice crooning and filling up the apartment. Proko shivers. It’s one of his favorite songs and it always makes him want to dance. He slides off the bar stool and grabs Kavinsky’s hands, tugging him to his feet.

“What’s this,” Kavinsky grins. He wraps his arms around Proko’s waist and Proko moves in closer, reaching up to place his hands on Kavinsky’s shoulders. They press together and sway side to side, Proko leading them in some simple steps.

“I go out walkin’ after midnight,” Proko sings softly, “out in the moonlight just like we used to do… I’m always walking after midnight searching for you…”

Kavinsky grins and twirls Proko and then dips him. “This is some seriously romantic shit, Baby.”

“You’re the one who dressed me and made me toast,” Proko reminds him.

Kavinsky makes a _hmph_ sound but doesn’t argue the point. The song winds down and Youtube starts playing a new song. Proko pauses it and notices that Kavinsky has some text notifications; he looks away, not wanting to invade his privacy.

“Someone’s blowing up your phone,” he says, pushing the phone towards Kavinsky.

Kavinsky taps at his screen and frowns. “Some of the crew. We have a meeting tomorrow to go over a new job. Piper’s being a real bitch.”

“Hmm.” Proko chews on his thumb. “Can I ask?”

“Yeah,” Kavinsky leans against the bar and Proko stands next to him. “Okay, so Piper kind of runs the show because she gets off on power tripping the rest of us. Technically she and her piece of shit husband are working under her dad, he’s like this shady French kingpin but he lets Piper have her way here in Atlanta. In the beginning she was more conservative about the jobs she planned and the crew she hired. But now…” Kavinsky shakes his head and downs the rest of his beer. “She thinks we’re invincible which is a good way to end up dead.”

“And her husband, what’s he doing?” Proko asks.

Kavinsky flips through his phone for a moment before turning it towards Proko. “That’s him. Colin Greenmantle.”

“Oh.” Proko blinks. “He’s hot.”

“Ha!” Kavinsky swipes through more pictures of the Greenmantles. “Yeah but he’s a major asshole. Like, he makes sure that we all know he’s the smartest one in the room. Pretentious little fuck.”

Proko gnaws at his lip and stares at the pictures. Colin Greenmantle looks like a model, even in candid shots he’s posed. He wears designer clothes, fitted and preppy as fuck. He doesn’t look like someone who would run with Kavinsky.

“Did y’all ever, you know?” He hates himself for thinking it, for asking. It’s not his business. But looking at Colin makes him feel so inadequate it’s making him ill.

“Fuck?” Kavinsky shakes his head. “Look, I think he could benefit from getting dicked down but he’s not my type. And I’m pretty sure Pipe would eviscerate me.”

“Hmm.” Proko studies Piper, too. She’s what LaTasha would call Sex in Heels or Trouble. She’s the only woman on the crew but just from looking at the pictures it’s clear that she’s the boss. “What’s she got on you that makes you stay?”

Kavinsky sighs and drapes himself over Proko’s back, resting his chin on Proko’s shoulder. “You know how I told you I killed my dad?” Kavinsky swallows and Proko can feel his Adam’s apple move against his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Proko whispers.

“She dug it up. Well, not _her_. She wanted me on her crew so she got someone else to do her dirty work. I thought I had covered my tracks but I was a teenager at the time and well… I guess I didn’t.” Kavinsky sighs again. He smells like beer and cigarette smoke. Proko presses back against him and grabs his hand, lacing their fingers together. “I should have killed everyone, all my father’s associates. I should have planned better.”

“How old were you?”

“Sixteen.”

“Fuck, K.” Proko twists around and examines Kavinsky’s face. His expression is as dead as Proko’s usually is, as dead as he felt when he was in rehab.

“Well, it’s in the past.” Kavinsky tries to shrug it off. “I got out, started a new life, and never looked back. Until Piper tracked me down and said join or suffer. It’s fine. I get to drive fast, steal shit, and live in this place.” He spreads his arms and gestures at the wide windows and the breathtaking view of the city. “Not so bad, right?”

Proko doesn’t think anything about it is good but he can’t tell Kavinsky that. Instead he pushes up on his toes and kisses him. He tastes the Corona and lime on Kavinsky’s tongue but he doesn’t mind. He tugs at Kavinsky’s hair and kisses him harder, his other hand fisted in Kavinsky’s shirt, holding him close.

“Hey,” Kavinsky pulls back and Proko stares at the way his pulse jumps in his neck. “What’s all this? Better not be a pity thing.”

It’s not easy to answer that and Proko squirms under Kavinsky’s intense gaze. “It’s not. Umm. I’m shit with words,” he mutters, licking his lips nervously. “I can sing you a song but I can’t find words for what I want to say and… ugh.” Proko waves his hands awkwardly. “I’m better with like physical stuff.”

Admitting that twists something in his chest. He’s reminded of all the shitty boyfriends or whatever they were, and the one relationship he thought was gold until it wasn’t. He _knows_ that it doesn’t matter how many people he’s slept with or what he’s done with them but he still can’t bury his father’s disgust and tirades about what a dirty slut he is and how he’ll die alone, unloved, and diseased. His therapist at rehab had tried to get him to talk about it but at the time it had been too raw and shameful to admit. So telling Kavinsky that basically all he’s good for is sex feels ugly and awful, even though he’s pretty sure that Kavinsky isn’t like the others.

“So you want me to what, fuck you and feel better?” Kavinsky asks. His tone is totally neutral, Proko can’t figure out if he’s mad or repulsed.

“Basically.” Proko can’t look at him. He holds himself perfectly still, looking off to the side, towards the door. His heart thuds painfully, heavy and aching. It was all going so well…

Kavinsky shifts a little and cups Proko’s face in his hands, tilting his head up to look at him. They lock eyes for what feels like an unbearable eternity before Kavinsky leans in and kisses him, his thumbs stroking Proko’s face. Relief sings in Proko’s chest, making his eyes well up.

They end up in Kavinsky’s bed and Proko ends up on his stomach, clasping a pillow to his chest while Kavinsky eats him out. He’s hard and aching, his cock twitching against the sheets but every time he tries to shove his hips against the bed Kavinsky tightens his grip on his ass. Proko whimpers and bites down onto the pillow as Kavinsky takes his sweet time. It’s the first time anyone has ever done this to him and it feels _incredible_ but Proko is fairly certain that he’s going to die if Kavinsky doesn’t hurry up and fuck him. He says as much, his voice sounding pathetic and needy. Just when he thinks that he can’t stand any more teasing Kavinsky finally flips him onto his back and proceeds to fuck him so hard Proko goes hoarse from screaming.

—–

The next morning Proko wakes up in Kavinsky’s arms. He’s sore and a bit achy but it was _so_ worth it. His throat feels scratchy and he hopes that Kavinsky’s walls are thick, otherwise K is sure to get some noise complaints because they were obscenely loud. Proko grins happily. He can feel Kavinsky’s morning erection pressing against his thigh and all he wants is for Kavinsky to wake up so he can swallow him whole and get him off. The best way to start the day.

Kavinsky’s phone buzzes with another missed text; this was what had woken Proko in the first place, a series of angry buzzing noises. Kavinsky had slept through all of them but when the phone starts making prolonged urgent sounds he wakes up, his hand blindly searching for his phone. Proko helpfully plucks it from the sheets and places it in Kavinsky’s questing hand.

“What the fuck—” Kavinsky growls into the phone, his eyes squinted shut as he yawns. “Uh huh. I was _asleep_. Fuck you too. What? No, I didn’t forget… We can just reschedule. Well what the fuck did she expect calling a meeting before noon?”

He’s silent for a minute, listening as the person on the other end rants at him. Proko takes the pause as an opportunity to get Kavinsky’s attention. He brushes his knuckles over Kavinsky’s dick, making him jerk in surprise. Kavinsky stares at him, the phone held to one ear but his focus is all on Proko. Proko mouths the question  _blow job?_ and bites his lip, head tilted to the side. Kavinsky places his hand over the phone and leans forward to kiss him.

“Baby, do your worst,” he whispers into Proko’s ear. When he pulls back he’s grinning widely.

Proko pulls the sheet back, exposing both of them. Kavinsky’s body is such a wonder he could stare at him all day, except he wouldn’t just stare, not when K’s dark nipples are practically begging to be sucked on, and his chest and ribs and thighs need to be marked. Kavinsky spreads his legs farther apart and Proko takes the hint, moving down the bed to settle between Kavinsky’s thighs. The phone conversation is still going but he’s only vaguely aware of what Kavinsky is saying. He wraps his hand around the base of Kavinsky’s cock, loving the way it feels against his palm and fingers. He gives a few lazy strokes before dipping down and sampling the head, giving it just a brief swipe of his tongue. He glances up and finds Kavinsky glaring at him, the phone clutched in his hand.

“Tease,” Kavinsky growls. “No… what. I wasn’t talking to you, Jiang.”

Proko laughs silently and rubs his cheek against the side of Kavinsky’s cock, adding a few licks and kisses. Kavinsky twitches in his hand and Proko responds by taking the smallest mouthful.

“Ughhh.” Kavinsky groans in frustration and digs his fingers into his hair. Proko relaxes his throat and sinks down, taking in all of K’s dick and holding it like that for several moments. Kavinsky makes another vaguely whiney sound and Proko hums happily.

“I swear to god…,” Kavinsky says. Proko can feel the tremble in his thighs as he struggles to keep himself still but Proko doesn’t want that. He pulls off and reaches up to grab Kavinsky’s hand and place it on the back of his head. This time when Proko goes down on him Kavinsky pushes in, a shallow thrust that Proko welcomes, his nails scoring long scratch marks down Kavinsky’s thighs. Kavinsky goes a little harder next time, his hand cupping the back of Proko’s neck, fingers tangling in his messy hair. Proko’s eyes water and he’s hard again and totally overwhelmed with the way Kavinsky is filling his mouth and throat, with how the only thing he can smell and taste and see is Kavinsky.

“You’re doing so good, Baby,” Kavinsky pants. The phone is abandoned on the pillow; the screen showing the call is still going through. Proko feels an extra powerful surge of arousal, knowing that someone is listening in, that Kavinsky wants them to hear. He tries swallowing, trickles of saliva leaking from his lips and down his chin. Kavinsky swears, long and filthy. Proko redoubles his efforts, his ears burning from Kavinsky’s praise.

“Baby, you look so hot taking my dick like that,” Kavinsky says and brushes the tears from Proko’s face. “Are you gonna swallow me down when I cum in your mouth?” Kavinsky asks. Proko bobs his head a couple times in assent, feeling how close Kavinsky is and wanting him to come, to fill him up again like he did last night. Proko closes his eyes tight and swallows again, tightening up around Kavinsky as much as possible as Kavinsky thrusts in one more time.

Kavinsky squeezes the back of his neck, moaning Proko’s name in warning right before he reaches his release. Proko relaxes as best as he can, swallowing down Kavinsky’s hot cum. He feels warm and electric, like his body is singing. He suckles on Kavinsky’s cock until Kavinsky pulls him off, wiping his mouth and kissing him.

“Your turn,” Kavinsky says, pulling him up to straddle his chest. Proko ruts his heavy cock between Kavinsky’s pecs, smearing him with precome. He’s so ready that it only takes a few rough pulls from Kavinsky to make him come. Proko chokes as he watches his cum splatter over Kavinsky’s chest and face.

“Oh shit, K, I’m sorry…”

Kavinsky laughs and tugs Proko down for a heated kiss. “I wanted that, you idiot,” he says. “You want to clean me up?”

“Yeah,” Proko breathes and licks his own cum from Kavinsky’s pretty face.

—–

“So I missed work again,” Proko says. He stands at Kavinsky’s stove, spatula clasped in one hand as he checks on the scrambled eggs.

“You have the flu,” Kavinsky responds with a shrug. “They can’t expect you to bounce back in one day.”

“And you missed your meeting.”

“Piper’ll be pissed but she’ll live.” Kavinsky pours them both coffee and puts a couple slices of toast on their plates. “Wasn’t this morning way better than work?”

Proko flushes and rubs the back of his neck. They’ve both showered and cleaned up, though they haven’t quite gotten dressed. Kavinsky leans against the counter wearing a pair of briefs and Proko wears the humongous T-shirt Kavinsky had put him in last night. It feels good… all of this. It feels like something that Proko could get used to.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, “it was the best.”

They take their food over to the bar and eat hungrily. Proko’s appetite has never been great but this morning he manages to eat all of his eggs and toast. The debacle at Bacchanalia feels like ancient history and Proko knows somehow that Kavinsky will never bring it up. But after all that K had shared with him about his past Proko feels it’s only fair to give some of his story. He doesn’t want Kavinsky to judge him or treat him differently but at the same time he thinks it’ll be okay. Kavinsky had already seen so much of his mess, what was a little more truth to add to the pile?

“So,” Proko begins, his hands cupping his warm coffee mug, “I think I may have mentioned going to rehab last night.”

Kavinsky swallows the last bite of toast and brushes crumbs onto his plate. He gives Proko a wary look and nods.

“Right. So here’s the thing.” He tugs the T-shirt down his thighs even though Kavinsky’s already seen his scars. “I went in for substance abuse, mostly alcohol, and whatever drugs my friends could get me.” The word _friends_ tastes bitter on his tongue. “But I was also there for self-harm and was on suicide watch for a while.” Proko focuses on the swirl of cream in his coffee, his shoulders hunched over, his body braced for Kavinsky’s reaction.

Kavinsky doesn’t say anything for a moment. Proko can feel the weight of his stare, the tension buzzes against the back of his skull and it feels like he can’t breathe, waiting for what Kavinsky will do or say.

“Damn.” The word is heavy, laced with feeling. “Fuck, Baby, I’m sorry. The scars…”

“Yeah,” Proko whispers. The skin of his inner thighs is thick with scar tissue. He had never felt comfortable cutting where anyone could see it by accident. When he had tried to take his life it was with pills and enough alcohol that he should have floated into oblivion, if he hadn’t been interrupted. “So that was in high school. I spent most of my senior year in a rehab facility for the rich and miserable. Once I turned eighteen my dad stopped paying and I was on my own.” He finally looks at Kavinsky to see how he’s taking all this. Kavinsky's expression is pinched, his mouth set in an angry frown.

“You’ve been totally solo since then?” Kavinsky asks. “How did you manage?”

Proko laughs. “Well, I don’t think I’ve ‘managed’ very well. I was in and out of some pretty toxic relationships. I had a little money from my mom and I used it to try to get into music here but that failed spectacularly. I’ve just been surviving, I guess? Finding work where I can and crashing in the cheapest places. Working at the shop and Buddy’s has actually been a good patch for me.”

“And your family really just let you go after that? After spending so much to keep you alive?” Kavinsky sounds beyond angry. Proko thinks about how Kavinsky killed his own father at sixteen and wonders about that; how did K survive for so long on his own?

“My mother is the one who insisted I go to rehab. My father probably wishes I had killed myself. Actually, I know he does. He told me that after my attempt failed. Most days when I want to give up I choose to live on just to spite him.” Proko taps his fingers against the mug and laughs a little. “It’s stupid how much I let that man’s opinion warp me.”

Kavinsky scoots his stool closer and pulls Proko in for a hug. “Dads, right?” Proko nods against his chest. Kavinsky sighs. “If you don’t want to answer this that’s fine. I just want to know. Why do you want to die?”

“Well, I don’t at the moment,” Proko answers. “This right here is very nice, definitely worth sticking around for.” Kavinsky laughs and ruffles his hair. “But seriously, I was diagnosed with depression. Sometimes life feels bearable and other times I get into such a dark place that I can’t find my way out. It’s been like that since I was in middle school, I guess. At the time everyone thought I was just moody. I would self medicate to stay up. Then I started messing around with other guys and that was another way to escape.” Proko sniffs and burrows closer to Kavinsky, touching his bare chest with trembling hands. “It all fell apart when my dad found out that me and my best friend were fucking. It was like something from one of those gay suffering movies, really bad shit. I think I could have taken it but the other guy did that whole ‘he’s gay, I’m not’ thing and I broke.” Proko’s voice catches and he swallows the prickle of tears. He’s _not_ going to cry over that asshole again, he’s not, especially when Kavinsky is holding him.

“That fucking sucks,” Kavinsky mutters. “Where does he live? It’s never too late to slash someone’s tires.”

“My dad or my ex?” Proko asks.

“Both,” Kavinsky replies. He doesn’t sound like he’s joking and it warms Proko’s heart.

“Well, my dad lives in Jersey,” Proko answers. “But fuck if I know where Daniel is.”

“ _Daniel_.” Kavinsky says the name like it’s the worst word he can think of. Proko laughs.

“I don’t hate him anymore,” he admits. “We were in a bad situation and he chose to protect himself rather than stick with me. No use staying mad.”

“I can be mad for you,” Kavinsky huffs. He tilts Proko’s face up and stares into his eyes. Kavinsky’s hair – soft and messy without his usual product – falls across his forehead giving him a vulnerable look at odds with his fierce gaze. “I’m not letting anyone hurt you again,” Kavinsky says.

Proko grins and lets himself lean into Kavinsky and his promise. He’s already been through hell and back, life owes him a good turn and he’s going to take it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry it’s been forever since the last update and that this update is sort of light on development and heavy on smut. I just really want K and Proko to have some nice times, at least when they’re not being sad, tormented souls. FYI: the song Proko sings is "Walkin' After Midnight" by Patsy Cline

**Author's Note:**

> This is the Baby Driver AU no one asked for and is 100% self-indulgent. I’ve never written Prokopinksky before so I feel like I’ve just jumped in someone else’s sandbox and am cheerfully mucking about. Pretty much making stuff up EXCEPT I have read some fics that have Ilya as Proko’s first name and I love that so I’m borrowing it. I have a rough outline of this fic and it will get pretty violent & sexy so be forewarned! No update schedule, this is the wild west.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr @dkafterdark


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